


The Ghost Of Time

by Brendan_Rendering



Series: The Ghost of A Thorne Among The Roses [2]
Category: BBC Ghosts
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Backstory, Byron - Freeform, Crossover, F/M, Flashbacks, Ghosts, Historical Reenactment, Horrible Histories - Freeform, Idiots, LARPing, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Modern Era, Multiple Crossovers, Music, Past Lives, References to Canon, Regency, Song Lyrics, Time Loop, Yonderland - Freeform, bill the film - Freeform, quacks - Freeform, six idiots, special benny, wrong mans, you me and the apocalypse - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24605707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brendan_Rendering/pseuds/Brendan_Rendering
Summary: "He's ahead of his time."What if Thomas Thorne isn't the ghost of a Regency poet?  This is the alternative story of how Mat Baynton becomes Thomas.  Mat is a modern day re-enactor who died in character as Thomas during a show at Button house.  He was wearing the costume of Thomas and so involved with the story he was acting out, he believes himself to be the regency poet in death.Disclaimer:  I have taken so many liberties with Mat's character here,  I've used the character of Mat in name only – to fit in with the story and this is not representative of Mat, as a person, in any way.I've met him and can confirm he's very cool.Everything underlined is a reference to something Idiots related, a quote from one of their shows, song lyric or a name.Everything in bold is a quote from my other Thomas novella - 'A Thorne Among The Roses' - That should be read before this and can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585334
Relationships: Mat Baynton/Original Female Character(s), Thomas Thorne/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Ghost of A Thorne Among The Roses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780309
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	1. A Town Planning And Noise Guidance Advisor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fanfiction and I don't claim ownership of the characters. Ghosts was created, written by and stars Mathew Baynton, Simon Farnaby, Martha Howe-Douglas, Jim Howick, Laurence Rickard & Ben Willbond.  
> Copyright of the above & the BBC.  
> Characters and themes used within are done with the highest respect of the creators and used under the fair use exception to the British copyright law. Fair dealing is governed by Sections 29 and 30 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.”  
> https://www.bl.uk/business-and-ip-centre/articles/fair-use-copyright-explained# 
> 
> Everything that is underlined is a quote from or a reference to a show or song by the Idiots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Special Benny – Toys Come Out To Play
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYLOA0rSusI&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R

Mat packed up his kit, just as he had done many times before, not needing the list he always wrote himself, which was fortunate as his border collie was currently lying on it – watching Mat with a contented vague interest at the well rehearsed routine of her owner. 

It was usual for the Horrible Historians to stay at each other's houses during the final couple of weeks of rehearsals before the show, to stay as a group and get in as much practice as possible. There were usually people who lived a distance from the location of the final show who stayed with those who lived closer, for convenience, even just for the day before the show. Ben had invited him over for a couple of weeks, Mat would have a longer commute to work but was looking forward to spending time with Ben. There hadn't been an opportunity for the two of them to hang out for a while - and with the effect rehearsals were having on him - Mat could do with a change of scene for the benefit of his mental health. 

Mat enjoyed the pressure of the final few weeks of rehearsal time, knowing it was his chance to perfect his routine, he found losing himself in constant reading and rehearsing of the script was the best remedy for pre-show nerves. But this time there was extra pressure. This show was more ambitious than previous productions and he had a leading role. They would be putting on a large scale outdoor performance, using horses for the first time, utilising all members of the Horrible Historians whereas usually only some of them were needed to put on a show. This was the big show, this was his chance to shine. This time he needed to triple check he'd collected all of his costume and props, his script and clothes for downtime while he was away. He could not afford to make any mistakes now, or during the show. This had to be perfect.

“That looks like all of it,” he murmured to himself, placing an outstretched palm on the pile of clothes he'd just finished packing into his duffle bag. He appeared lost in thought for a moment as he stood contemplating his packing inside the bag and everything else in piles on the bed. The dog was losing interest in her inanimate owner and was considering a nap when Mat suddenly exclaimed “don't let me forget the most important thing, Kit!”

Kitty's drooping eyelids suddenly snapped open and her ears pulled forward at the mention of her name, Mat crouched down at the side of the bed and reached underneath for a box. Kit yawned and stretched her forelegs out in front of her, craning her neck forward to peer over the side of the bed.  
Mat pulled out a black plastic hinged box, like a small toolbox, but as he carefully opened the lid it wasn't household tools contained - but a replica Regency era pistol. He lovingly ran his fingers over the polished wood and carved inlaid brass, this was his investment in his LARP club and his attempt to impress Lizzie.

Kitty turned her head suddenly to the side as Mat's phoned buzzed on the bed next to her, he stood and picked up the phone, unlocking it with a practised swipe of his finger and viewed the new message. He grinned instantly as he saw the sender's name. Lizzie.

_'Be honest! How many times have you packed, unpacked and repacked today? :P Also are you excited to finally get to use that gun? I'm assuming you've been carrying it around stuffed down the back of your jeans all day – gangster style! :)_ '  
He read the text a few times before composing a reply:  
_'I'm repacking for the last time now! Promise! Kit's been waiting patiently for a walk but she's giving me dirty looks now...Can't wait to use the gun at last! It's been stuffed down my jeans all week I'll have you know! Led to some awkward questions at work :P I'm totally committed to the look now! I like to think of it more like cowboy style – I prefer their hats, maybe HH can have a go at an American frontier LARP next?'_

He had barely taken his gaze away from the screen before it lit up again.  
_'Haha, some cowboy you'd make, you're allergic to horses you flannel!'_

Mat smiled at his phone, the Horrible Historians had recently gone for riding lessons in preparation for their latest show and Lizzie wouldn't let him forget how he had an allergic reaction to the horses. When the group were planning the lessons, he had ambitious visions of himself learning to ride and using horses for their show. He would be the heroic knight riding for his princess, the Robin Hood with his Maid Marion, a dandy highwayman. Whatever the scenario he always saw himself riding tall and proud, confident in the saddle, in total control. Sometimes he'd be racing across a field, sometimes jumping a fence, occasionally surrounded by an enthralled public, other times alone with Lizzie. Mostly in full costume but sometimes they'd be in their usual jeans and t-shirts, it always felt romantic with a horse, evoking the feeling of chivalry and simpler times gone by. These fantasies were shattered when they went for riding lessons.

They had all been briefed in the school, Mat exchanging nervous grins with Martha and Larry on either side of him. They were standing in a line facing the horses who were being held by stablehands, the instructor in the middle of the lines of horses and people, explaining the basics of riding to the humans while the horses looked bored.

Mat was nodding along with the others, an uncomfortable itchy heat creeping over him, he attributed this to the hired helmet fastened tight under his chin. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to shake the uneasy feeling of sinking into the wood chipping surface of the school as he looked ahead to his horse. They looked smaller and much less impressive than in his fantasies, less of a trusty steed and more of a squat, overweight work horse. This one looked as if they would be much slower than the racehorse types he'd been picturing – tall, sleek with a fierce, commanding look in their eyes. This horse looked as though they'd never been faster than walking pace. They had one back foot propped up at a right angle, as if bored with humans reducing the magnificent animals to the lowly level of mere riding school horse. Mat realised the disappointment he felt with the horse would be mirrored by the horse themselves. He didn't feel much like a knight right now, totally inexperienced, feeling uneasy and painfully aware he didn't look like the ideal rider, he wasn't someone the horse would want holding the reins. They would much rather be out in the fields, wind in their mane and grass beneath their hooves - instead they had a complete novice, fidgeting nervously in front of them.

They were instructed to approach their horses and Mat was surprised at how still his remained as he slowly reached out his hand to stroke their nose. They barely lifted their head, nostrils flaring, searching for a familiar smell, they pushed their nose into Mat's outstretched palm but didn't pull away when no treats were forthcoming. Mat reached up to brush the forelock away from the horse's eye and turned to smile at the stablehand after noticing the impressive fetlocks. “I like the ones with the flares, what's their name?” The stablehand smiled shyly in return, she was proud of this horse and wanted riders to appreciate him, but the riders didn't usually acknowledge the stablehands and didn't ask for the horse's names. “Negatus,” she replied, “he's a real gent, he'll look after you.”

Mat grinned, “Negatus?” The stable hand nodded enthusiastically, “we wanted to give him a bad-ass name, something original, people go for names that make horses sound like superheros, but what if they're an anti-hero? We wanted something that would excuse him for being cheeky – and he thinks he's an overlord when he's turned out, the name fits him.” Mat turned back to Negatus and gently ran his fingers down the horse's nose “Please be gentle big lad, I'm going to need you to take it easy on me.” The stable hand smiled at Mat, beaming with pride for Negatus, she rested her hand distractedly on his hindquarters, just behind the saddle.

“Mount up everyone,” came the call from the instructor from across the school, “get yourself balanced on the steps, before you hold both reins in your left hand and grip the back of the saddle with your right.” She walked down the line, observing everyone gingerly climbing the mounting steps and preparing to mount with varying degrees of confidence. Mat proceeded up the steps, gripped the reins tightly in his left hand as instructed, the warm smell of the horse's hair and the sweet smell of hay lay heavy in his nostrils and was strangely reassuring. “Keep tight ahold of your reins as you put your left foot in the stirrup and swing your right leg over.”

The group all managed to swing themselves into the saddle, however ungainly and undignified they looked, Mat glanced down to adjust his reins and decided the ground was further beneath his feet than he was comfortable with. He looked up again sharply as Negatus shifted his weight underneath him. Mat concentrated on trying to remember everything the instructor had told the group while their feet had been firmly planted on solid ground, he sat up straight, instantly feeling more balanced. He glanced around at the others, slowly moving off in single file around the outside of the school, he saw Ben in the lead, looking confident as though he'd been riding all his life. He caught Lizzie's eye and raised his hand to doff his imaginary cowboy hat towards her. She laughed but was instantly distracted by her horse moving off to follow the one in front, she lurched forward before she adjusted her seat and sat up straight, focused now on what she was doing. Mat smiled as he watched her and was too focused on Lizzie to notice her boyfriend Mike. He was a few horses in front of Mat and behind Lizzie, he had been watching Lizzie too and didn't take kindly to the attention she was giving Mat. Mike scowled at Mat but his attention was soon drawn to the task in hand as Negatus moved to join the procession, so Mat didn't notice Mike's evident disapproval.

Mat was trying to ignore the itch he felt all over his body, he had received a barked order from the instructor to not “dance about in the saddle”, consequently he had tried to sit as still as he could and resist the urge to scratch while leaning into the flow of the horse's movements. Mat decided his discomfort was probably caused by the dust of the school's surface being kicked up by so many hooves, and tried to ignore it. Instead he looked around the large rectangular space, like a small aircraft hangar, the wide archway leading to the stables, with an equally wide path up to and around the walls of the school. There was a large seating area, with tiered fixed plastic seats to the left of the stable entrance and to the right was the main door and office. There was a large space in front of the reception, where they had all tried on helmets prior to the lesson, when the instructor had begun explaining the basics of riding and the Horrible Historians reacted with varying degrees of excitement and dread. Mat wondered what the seemingly random letters represented that were fixed to the inside walls of the school and briefly glanced in the huge mirror spanning the long wall. Although not quite cutting the dashing figure he had hoped, he was pleasantly surprised at how good he and Negatus appeared in the reflection, he sat taller and felt more comfortable with the reins in his grasp now.

The riding school was an environment he'd never been in before and it felt a world of difference away from his usual haunt of the Berkshire county council offices, where he was a town planning and noise guidance advisor. That's why he loved Horrible Historians, it was an escape from that mundane existence. He turned around to sneak a look at Phil behind him, who looked very much out of his depth on a horse. He didn't work for the council he just worked in the building but the mail room that was Phil's weekday kingdom was a more natural environment for him than this. He would always roll deep and get involved with the shows as part of the group, but he preferred the modern scenarios - stories of Russian spies, double agents, heists. Phil enthused about stories involving world travel, escaping from the law or a gang, a witness protection programme failing. They were the shows Phil excelled in writing for the group to perform, Mat had written a show with him – they were calling it 'The Wrong Mans', about two ordinary guys caught up in an ever increasingly dangerous mistaken identity fight for survival. They had joked about travelling across the world in a desperate attempt to escape those chasing them, but they'd make it back home in time for christmas by skydiving and hitchhiking. Whether children dream about becoming a knight or a spy when they grow up, that dream and the sense of adventure never really leaves the imagination. That's what was so good about Horrible Historians, it gave everyone the ability to act out a more exciting life for a while.

Mat was enjoying the freedom of being in control of Negatus, the stablehands having left the school as soon as all the riders could show they were comfortable controlling their horse without assistance. Mat was feeling pleased with himself at riding Negatus unaccompanied but he felt this was a misplaced confidence as he had a strong suspicion Negatus would happily follow his friends in single file around the outside of school, whether someone was in the saddle or not. The instructor progressed from simple circuits to serpentines - cutting into the middle of the school, heading diagonally to the other side and performing multiple turns in a circuit. Once she felt everyone was ready she prepared them for a trot.

'Speed!' thought Mat, with a nervous thrill, before concentrating once again on the instructor. “Remember to always keep ahold of those reins, now you've pulled them tighter you should always be able to feel your horse on the other end, so you can stop them anytime you want. I must warn you all – this is going to be a bumpy ride. Your first trot is very uncomfortable until you find your rhythm, don't worry about it too much yet, just focus on shifting up a gear into the trot, keep those reins close and ease back into a walk to join the end of the line.”

Mat was wondering how uncomfortable this would be as he gathered his reins, checked his seat and fixed his gaze steadily on the centre point between his horse's ears, waiting for the instruction to trot, “leg on” the instructor called and Mat instantly tapped his heels to Negatus' sides. The experience was as uncomfortable as he'd been warned about, bouncing around in the saddle as Negatus moved faster and to a different rhythm. Mat tried to concentrate on sitting down as lightly as possible on Negatus' back while he was trying to find and keep a rhythm of rising in time. He was sure he'd have bruises tomorrow from bouncing around to add to his itches.

Everyone had managed to trot with varying degrees of success, Mat watched Lizzie looking so confident and natural on horseback, he was sure he hadn't looked as graceful during his trot. The instructor commented on how she almost had the rhythm right and Mat told himself that he was observing her form and technique and that it wasn't admiration for Lizzie herself. Mike had turned to watch Mat while Lizzie was trotting and again scowled as Mat was completely entranced by Mike's girlfriend.

They all laughed about their riding lesson in the pub afterwards, how scared and ungainly people looked, Mat's laughter was subdued as he still felt itchy and was sure he was coming down with a cold. More importantly, he couldn't stop thinking about how good Lizzie looked on horseback. She texted him the next day asking how bruised he was.

_He replied 'my body is a peach.'_

__

'Haha! That bad?'

__

'The bruising isn't too bad, but I think I'm allergic to horses?!'

__

_'You did say you were itchy in the pub :o has that scuppered your dreams of being a knight and rescuing damsels in distress then?'_  
Mat smiled wistfully at his phone, thumb hovering over the keypad before replying, he would love nothing more than to be her knight, Lizzie knew him well. _'Looks like it :( gutted! No damsels for me!'_

__

'Aww bless, you can still be a knight in shining armour without a horse, you can start by bringing cake to the next meet, chivalry and all that! :P'

__

_'Haha yeah, looks like I'll have to leave the butch stuff to the tough guys without the allergies, I'll fetch cake.”_


	2. Chapter 2 - “To be fair it was very close and entirely non-binding”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Alexander James Adams – Conjure A Miracle
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TERfWyTYfhs&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=2

“Right then you 'orrible lot” Jim leered theatrically at the troupe in his dodgy Cockney accent they had all begged him, on multiple occasions, to stop performing. Their exasperated sighs and resigned head shakes didn't deter him from his speech, once he had begun there was no stopping him. Although he did continue his speech in his usual voice, after taking a pause to clear his throat, simultaneously noticing he was loosing his audience. 

“Thank you again to everyone who helped to write our Byron show – we've got a great piece with this and I know you'll do amazing things with it.” He raised his eyes above the heads, to a point where the back wall met the ceiling, as if addressing a huge crowd and wanting his words to travel to the far corners of a much larger auditorium than this community centre hall. “A grand re-imagining of the life and times of Lord Byron.”

He lowered his gaze back to the group and beamed at them like a proud father, “now there's three roles I want to nail down today – our title character of Byron, his lovely lady Elizabeth and of course the tragic romantic Thomas Thorne...If anyone missed last weeks meeting but would like to audition for these parts, I have spare scripts,” he held up the scripts with a flourish and paused to allow people to think. “Now I'd like to start with Elizabeth, if everyone who would like to read for her can come forward please....everyone else, objective judge's hats on please.”

There were a few moments of movement and murmurs while the women who wanted to audition moved from their chairs to the front space ready to perform. Others talked about who they thought would make a good Elizabeth, who should have auditioned, and why they themselves had decided not to. Jim took his seat in the middle of the front row and waited for the women to be ready and for the group to fall silent before beginning, “Yes Debbie, you're up first, when you're ready pet.”

Mat was seated on the third row, not paying much attention, lost in his own thoughts, until Lizzie took her place centre stage. She waited for the applause from the previous contender to die down before reciting the lines. Mat felt as though a deeper hush had descended on the hall, it was as though a spotlight was capturing Lizzie's every feature, so captivating was her presence, they could have been at the Royal Albert Hall. Lizzie about to give the performance of a generation, while the audience would be rightly blown away by her talent, Mat was enthralled before she started speaking, and knew instinctively the part was already hers.

**“Oh, begging your pardon, good sir, I did not realise there was anyone else here...I had grown weary of dancing and wished to partake in a quiet walk, I was not aware this garden was already occupied.”**

Mat was entranced by her recital, for him there was no-one else in the room and she was speaking directly to him. 

**“It seems we have a common purpose, sir, would you walk with me awhile so that we may enjoy this garden - and it's peace - together?”**

In those short moments Lizzie was, unquestionably, Elizabeth. 

**“Sir, you are very observant...I was happy for a time, my partner was attempting to teach me to dance but I fear it is a skill I simply cannot master. The awkward display of our dancing was, I must admit, entirely my own doing.”**

He hadn't planned on auditioning for Thomas – assuming the part would be given to Mike. But now, after seeing Lizzie perform, he knew he had to try.

**“It would seem that dancing is easier when one has a partner whom one genuinely enjoys dancing with.”**

After all of the potential Elizabeths had auditioned, they resumed their seats while Jim called for the Byron hopefuls to take their place ready to audition. In the movement of people, Mat launched from his chair and grabbed a spare script from the box Jim had left them in at the front. He caught Jim's eye on the way back to his seat and nodded at him with an unsure grin, Jim winked in return and returned the nod approvingly.

While the Byrons – of which Mike was one – were reciting their lines, Mat skimmed through the script for Thomas and tried to commit it to memory. He was brought back to reality, not confident of his ability to recite the speech, when Jim called “thank you all gentlemen, this is going to be a tough decision! Finally, our romantic heroes, failed poets and hapless gallants, all of our Thomas' get ready to strut your stuff.”

Mat made his way to the front, unsure about the lines and his heart sank further when he realised Mike hadn't sat down, he was still front and centre, waiting to audition again. Although at least only Ben had been brave enough to go up against Mike, by the scowl he was giving Ben, Mike hadn't expected anyone to have the audacity to challenge him for the role. 

Ben slapped Mat brotherly on the back as he wished him luck, grinning happily, seemingly unaware of Mike seething on Ben's other side. Mat returned the sentiment but without the grin as Mike was called to audition first. He directed his whole speech to Lizzie on the front row, as Mat fought the urge to roll his eyes. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part but it seemed as though Lizzie was embarrassed by Mike's attention, trying to ignore the others around her, with their conspiratorial whispers and good-natured elbows to her ribs. Mike ended his routine by dropping to one knee and kissing her hand, to which Lizzie barely smiled in response and seemed relieved when it was over.

Stomach tightening, Mat tried to ignore the smug look Mike flashed him as he stood next to Mat, allowing Ben the floor. Ben gave a good performance and Mat hoped he would be chosen for the role, over a self-satisfied Mike and himself - who hadn't learned the lines. Mat was dreading his turn, still clutching the script and desperately trying to learn as much of it as possible, his concentration was disrupted by the image of Lizzie rehearsing. All he could see in his mind was her as Elizabeth, she was so perfect for the role and he couldn't hope to be a good enough Thomas to match her. He was also aware of a driving force that wouldn't allow him to sit back down, he had to do this, he couldn't explain why, but he had to. Finally the audience applauded Ben who took a bow, turned to join Mike and grinned at Mat as he passed. Mat stepped forward to begin his audition, he stumbled over the words he hadn't had time to learn, distracted by visions of Lizzie as Elizabeth and himself as Thomas. 

**“I confess I also wished for peace away from the party...however pleasant it may be.”**

He was barely listening to himself, fearing he was doing badly but unable to stop, feeling a burning passion and determination to see this through, he realised how much he was coveting the role. Determinedly setting his sights on being cast as Thomas, he was frustrated with himself for not realising this sooner. He could have given himself a better chance, if only he had the same amount of time as the others to learn the lines. 

**“I would certainly not object to sharing this beautiful garden with you awhile, my lady.”**

He tried not to make eye contact with Lizzie, although something was telling him it would be the most natural thing to direct his words towards her, as Mike had done, but he would do it with a loving tenderness, like Thomas would. 

**“I noticed you dancing earlier my lady, you looked content, although I must confess I did not rate your dance partner.”**

The fear seemed to be fading away into the background now, taken over by Thomas' words, the passion, the familiar feeling and sound of them as he spoke. Although he was struggling to remember the words, once they left him they felt right, natural. He was starting to feel like Thomas, like he could take on the role and do the Regency poet justice.

**“My lady I believe everyone should know how to dance, especially - and please forgive my rudeness - a lady as beautiful as you.”**

He risked a glance at Lizzie as he finished the final line, buoyed by the ease of which Thomas' words seemed to come to him, how natural the role felt. He was relieved to see her smiling back at him, her look filled him with hope. Maybe he could be her Thomas after all, maybe he could be the one to dance with her in the walled garden on a Summer's evening and enjoy her company alone. He was roused from this train of thought suddenly by the applause in the room and found he was more saddened than relieved when his audition was over. Although he'd forgotten lines and needed Jim to prompt him he felt an affinity with Thomas Thorne – a hopeless romantic in love with the woman of another man, out of his league and out of his reach. It felt as though Thomas had become an unspoken and unacknowledged part of Mat's personality.

Jim jumped up, clapped him on the back with a “well done, lads” and a gentle push in the direction of the audience as Ben and Mike also resumed their seats, eagerly anticipating the vote. Jim thanked everyone for auditioning and proceeded straight to the vote, counting the raised hands in favour of the corresponding actors. The vote for Elizabeth was close as so many of the women had auditioned and they were all good, but for Mat there was only ever one contender and fortunately for him Lizzie won the vote. He tried to restrain his enthusiastic applause.

It was a tie break for Byron between Mike and Larry so Jim moved on to the vote for Thomas to allow people more time to decide between the two competitors. There was, surprisingly, another tie between Mike and himself. Mat was shocked so many of the Horrible Historians would consider him for the role after that abysmal performance, but he was immensely gratefully and extremely pleased. He was dumbstruck but dared to allow himself a small glimmer of hope that he could win this after all, Jim paused for thought before addressing the group again. “Well guys and gals, I don't think anybody expected there to be two tie breaks...with our dashing Mike involved in both...he can only take on one role and personally...I see him as our Byron...with Mat as our Thomas. Can I have a show of hands in favour of that?” 

Mat resisted the urge to turn in his seat and count the raised hands behind him, he didn't need to however, most people were murmuring in agreement. Mat could have danced to the front as Jim called his three main actors back up, to be introduced officially as their characters. Lizzie stood next to Mike, with Mat on his other side and Jim in between the leading men, Jim swept his arm dramatically to the right towards Lizzie. “Horrible Historians,” he announced enthusiastically, “you have auditioned, you have spoken, you have chosen the lovely Lizzie to play our leading lady Elizabeth.” The seated group all applauded as Lizzie curtseyed. Mat leaned forward slightly and turned his head to smile at her, trying not to make it obvious but thrilled for her and wanting to share in this moment. Mike's gaze was fixed on the group and he didn't react to Lizzie's announcement. Mat wanted to frown at this, if Lizzie was his girlfriend he'd support her in everything she did and he would be celebrating her every achievement, he'd be happy for her. As happy as he was now in fact, but he stopped that thought in it's tracks, Lizzie was not his girlfriend and he could not show how happy he was for her, he didn't have the right. Although he wanted to pick her up, spin her around and kiss her he had to make do with a small smile in her direction, which she didn't notice.

Jim held Mike and Mat's wrists and waited until Lizzie's applause had died down, until he once again held everyone's attention before continuing. “Annnnd after a hard-fought vote, to be fair it was very close and entirely non binding...” He paused to look meaningfully between Mat & Mike then back towards the group, “I give you...” Jim raised his arms, pulling up Mat and Mike's arms above their heads, like a referee declaring the winner of a boxing match. “Our very own suave gentlemen....Mike as our dashing Lord Byron and Mat as our romantic hero Thomas Thorne.”


	3. Chapter 3 - “To Each Their Dreams”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Special Benny – Air Filter
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8uKpbt2mWE&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=3

Mat didn't have as much time alone with Lizzie to rehearse as he had hoped for, Jim preferred them to rehearse as a group to get everyone's input and the show wasn't long enough to warrant extra practice sessions away from the group. Mat decided it would be crossing a line to ask Lizzie to rehearse at either of their houses in between meetings, he didn't think her boyfriend would approve. Mike still seemed to be smarting over Mat being chosen to play Thomas. Mat, although he wouldn't admit it publicly, slipped effortlessly into the character - a hopeless romantic, in love with another man's woman. The irony was not lost on him.

People were rehearsing in groups around the room, although judging by the tendrils of overheard sentences that drifted through the hall, there were a lot of conversations not about the Life of Byron. Topics being discussed among the peripheral actors seemed to range from the mundane, “the weather is unseasonably cold for this time of year.” To the more intense:  
“We're going to cross a lot of bridges Sam, jump a lot of hurdles. I need to know that I'm with someone who's got my back. Someone who's prepared to roll deep! Are you prepared to roll deep?”  
The reply was unsure, taken aback by the previous speaker's intensity, “I don't know what you're talking about and I don't think you do.”  
“I'm talking about rolling deep. Because that's how I roll, I roll deep.” There was emphasis placed on the answer with single claps between words, it was met with silence.

Jim was discussing a script written for a new show, “I'm a writer now,” Simon was telling him confidentially, Jim looked doubtful as he leafed through the pages. “Is this it?”  
“Yeah, well it's not quite finished.” Simon explained hopefully.  
“Not quite finished? It's three pages.”  
There was a moment of silence as Jim skimmed the script, frowning in concentration, “first thing's first,” he looked up from the pages, “write what you know.”  
Simon was not so easily put off, he'd decided he liked the idea of writing and wanted to pitch, what he believed was, a great idea for the next show.  
“It's like the words flow through me, like they're the East and I'm the sun...well not that.”  
Jim looked sympathetic, “maybe you're destined for something different?”  
Simon was not to be put off, replying firmly. “I'm a writer now.”  
“To each their dreams.” Jim handed back the unfinished script, telling Simon to keep working on it.  
Simon seemed to lose his confidence suddenly, “urgh, writing's hard!”  
“Yes, I like this guy!” Jim slapped Simon cheerfully on the back and left to observe the other groups rehearsing.

Mike was clearly enjoying his role of Byron, sarcastically telling Ben, “Oh that is a sad story, would you like my private twenty seven piece orchestra to play you something sad?” He turned his head and called to an invisible orchestra over his shoulder, “orchestra! Play something sad!”   
“Ooh he's very impressive,” replied Ben, breaking character and adopting a playful camp accent, in juxtaposition to Mike's sombre and growling Byron. Ben continued, amused by Mike's confusion, “he's got it, I don't know what it is but he's got it. Love him!”  
Mike shook his head in mock sadness but grinned, “I'm wasted on these idiots.”

There was always so much going on during these rehearsals, several groups acting out different scenarios, a multitude of conversations playing out at once. Some of them could conceivably have been part of the show, as when Larry asked Martha:  
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”  
“The top hats are fabulous!”  
“No,”  Larry paused before continuing in a stage whisper, “they are.”

Other conversations seemed too far-fetched to be relevant to the Life of Byron, as in the one between two extras:  
“Sorry boss, got lost on the ring road.”  
“There isn't a ring road!”  
“Exactly, that's why we got lost.”

The more they rehearsed the more difficult it was for Mat to break character afterwards, he found himself researching the Regency period in his spare time. He was reading all of the books he could find and spending hours trawling through the internet for images - the clothes, the houses, the culture of the period. He was becoming obsessed with the history and found himself ensnared, not realising how completely he was being pulled in to the world of long ago, until there was a meeting about the staging of the show. The main actors Mat, Lizzie, Mike, Ben, Larry, Martha and Simon were joined by Jim and Phil, who had volunteered to be set designer and was showing the group initial sketches of a backdrop. The group were nodding along to Phil's explanation, not seeing any issues with the drawings, until Mat interjected passionately, “is this meant to be 1820's? Those are Rococo chairs and tables! You can tell by the legs! They're Rococo legs!”

There was a moment of silence as everyone else around the table turned to stare at Mat in surprise at his outburst and unexpected knowledge of the period, the set designer turned quickly back to his drawings, frowning, desperately trying to see what Mat had seen. Phil had not considered his work would need to be completely accurate, he had also not factored in Mat's surprising attention to detail. Phil realised his own knowledge was lacking in comparison and he would need to go away, do more research and come back with a more historically accurate attempt.

Lizzie grinned at the indignant Mat later when they were rehearsing alone in a corner, “the way you almost shouted at Phil earlier over his drawings, it was like when Jim starts rehearsal sessions by yelling 'Hi, I'm a shouty man!' Phil looked like he was going to cry when you told him his chair legs were wrong!”  
Mat looked sheepish “I went too far didn't I?”  
“You're just passionate, it's nice you care so much. To be fair, you did apologize and he looks like he's over it now,” they both glanced over to Phil who was practising sword fighting with Larry using two poster tubes. “It was the way you noticed that tiny detail...and then almost shouted it...in his face.” Lizzie laughed.

They were both distracted at that moment, as were most people in the room, by Alison and Terry at the refreshments table making tea. “Watch out!” Alison suddenly shouted, followed quickly by “for the sugar Terry! That's too many!” Alison glanced apologetically around the hall, realising how loud she'd shouted, with Terry looking guilty. Everyone else resumed their rehearsals or conversations immediately and the moment was forgotten, much to the relief of Alison and Terry.

Lizzie continued “you're really getting into this aren't you? Proper Regency expert now, I love it!”  
Mat smiled shyly at the floor, “I'm nowhere near an expert, I've just been reading up about this stuff. I barely knew anything about the Regency era before this. But I love the clothes, the way of life...I'd go back to that time if I could, live the life of a dandy gentleman. It'd be so much more interesting than being a town planning and noise guidance adviser for Berkshire County Council.”

Lizzie was captivated by his obvious enthusiasm for all things Regency, but the way the light in his eyes dimmed as he mentioned his job caused the breath to catch in her throat, she felt for him. She could picture him as a dashing bachelor, in his fine Georgian clothes, he'd be attending balls and courting wealthy ladies, if only he'd been born 200 years earlier. He could have been living that life as Thomas Thorne instead of being here now as Mathew Baynton.

Lizzie made a vow with herself to give this performance everything she had, to make it as realistic as possible for Mat's sake. She didn't think it would be too difficult as she felt herself being drawn in to the role, just as Mat was. When she pictured him attending Regency balls as Thomas, she saw herself there too as Elizabeth. Whether it was sympathy for Mat's longing or her own subconscious desires, she saw herself as the only one to dance with Thomas at the ball. The two of them oblivious to the world around them as they twirled and waltzed the evening away in her fantasy.

Lizzie reached for Mat's hand as she recited her lines from the walled garden scene, taking great pleasure and becoming more confident in her words as she noticed the light flare back into Mat's eyes once again hearing Elizabeth's words from Lizzie's mouth.

Mat took Lizzie's hand and as soon as their fingers entwined he could smell the heavy scent of honeysuckle and unmistakable musk of the roses, lingering in the evening air of the walled garden. The chatter of their troupe became the song of the Robin, it rang out clearly, reverberating around the walls as the bright electric lights of the hall faded into the night, the gravel underfoot crunching as they waltzed. They were no longer Mat and Lizzie in a 21st century community centre rehearsing for a play, they were Thomas and Elizabeth sharing a stolen moment in a walled garden in the 19th century. The excitement of performing for the public was replaced with the exhilaration of being alone together.

It was effortless to slip back into character, Mat felt an affinity with Thomas and was increasingly identifying with the 1800's poet in every rehearsal. Lizzie saw the change in him, she couldn't find the words but knew something was different with Mat, she was finding it ever more difficult to separate the two people. She looked at Mat – a friend she had known for a few years - affable, funny, down-to-earth and understandably intelligent, but now she saw Thomas, outspoken, dramatic, the romantic poet lost in his own world.

When Mat looked at Lizzie he now saw Elizabeth, he saw her ballgown flowing as they practised waltzing, smelled her rosewater perfume. He heard her words spoken through Lizzie and felt the silk of her dress pressed against the heavy starched cotton of his own shirt. He was as close to her as society allowed them to be, close enough to see his own hopes reflected in her eyes and he was no longer Mat trying to win Lizzie's heart, he was Thomas trying to win Elizabeth's.

The illusion was shattered during one session when Mat's phone rang, the birdsong in the meadow he was walking through with Elizabeth suddenly sounded wrong, it became louder, less natural. Elizabeth turned to face him and asked, without moving her mouth, “do you need to answer that?” Thomas stared in confusion for a moment while the spring sun was extinguished in the meadow, the fields before them melted away into the unforgiving tiles of the hall and he found himself inside a room he momentarily didn't recognise. Elizabeth standing in front of him, dressed in strange clothes, nodding towards his leg.

He felt a vibration against his leg - wrong. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans - wrong, he pulled out the offensive box that suddenly felt very alien. A distant but insistent memory told him to press the button on the side to switch off the screen and the corresponding noise.

“Sorry,” he smiled apologetically at Lizzie,  
“No worries, as you were.” She returned the smile more warmly, this had clearly put Mat off his stride and she was as bitterly disappointed as he was. She was enjoying his performance of Thomas, getting lost in the scene, carried away by the moment and the fantasy. Mat took a deep breath then launched back into his speech, not looking at the script, Lizzie noted, wondering how much he was improvising. It sounded as though it was coming from the heart, directly from the mind of Thomas. To Lizzie his words felt more believable spoken than written in the script, Mat was bringing this story to life for them both and she suspected it was down to more than his acting skills. He felt it, this was his new reality and she couldn't help but experience it with him, this intoxicating fantasy encapsulated them both.

Thomas was begging Elizabeth to run away with him and suddenly Mat collapsed onto one knee, reached for her hand and gazed into her eyes imploringly. Lizzie wanted nothing more in that moment than to throw herself into Thomas' arms, admit her love for him and ride off into the sunset together. To escape the chains that bound them both, to hell with Byron, her reputation and her family. All that mattered was Thomas' love for her and her love for Thomas.


	4. Chapter 4 - “It won't be long now”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Special Benny – Shine And Step
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qb3RcqEqmBI&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=4

“Ok guys! So for the big finale...” Jim gave an exuberant jazz hands as he addressed the troupe. “I want my Lord Byron and my Thomas Thorne...” He pointed to Mike and Mat respectively, “front and centre please.” Both men took their positions in between Jim and the group, Mat eyeing Mike warily while Mike was emanating a loathing for the other man, leering at him as if in challenge.

“Lads, lads, lads,” Jim stepped between them and clapped a hand heavily on each of their shoulders, forcing them to both unwillingly take a step closer together. Jim studied both of their faces as they tried to look impassive, “we're making history here people.” He turned his face to the sky and ignored the rest of the Horrible Historians giggling at his customary dramatic speech. Jim brought his gaze back down to the troupe, “we're going to bring the story of Lord Byron to life for the unsuspecting public! They will laugh, they will cry, they will be shocked! They. Will. Be. Entertained.” 

At the climax of his speech he gripped Mat and Mike's tshirts and balled his fists, they both tried to wriggle from his grasp, to no avail. After a moment he let go and brought his hands up in front of his chest, pressing his outstretched fingertips together, resting both index fingers against his lips in thought.

Jim lowered his steepled hands so his index fingers now pointed at Mat, “Lets go from the top boys, I want this to be perfect.” At his final word he drew his hands apart as if miming an explosion and walked over to stand with the troupe. “Places, people, places! ...When you're ready gentlemen.”

Mike looked as though he was sizing Mat up before he began, 

**“Come now, Thorne, you must know how this is done.”**

Mat felt the indignity of Byron mocking Thomas as Mike was smirking at him. As Mat he was running over the lines in his head, where he needed to stand, how he should move, there was a set of instructions he was to follow. As Thomas he was reliving this awful encounter, his final moments, feeling the natural flow of the words and his actions in his mind without having to consider. There was a part of Mat that wasn't consciously thinking about the script or the plan for the show, the part of him that was Thomas, he was acting and reacting naturally – as Thomas would.

**They turned their backs to one another, guns held pointing skywards. A sky Thomas glanced towards and hoped with all his heart that he would see again after today, another sunrise, another sunset, to see the sun's rays illuminating Elizabeth's beautiful face.**

'It won't be long now,' Mat thought, his heartbeat racing, his hands sweating around the handle of the pistol prop he'd been so excited to buy for this purpose. It no longer seemed a good idea, Mat knew the pistols meant Thomas' death and he now felt strangely connected to his character. Mat lamented on Thomas dying this way, he regretted buying the pistol – not that it would have changed anything – 'the show must go on' after all. He reflected on his pride and excitement  
being cast as Thomas, but now it had come to this. He'd always known this was how it would end for Thomas, but Mat wished with all of his heart, as he gazed up at the sky, things could be different. 

**The call came from one of Byron's underlings after a nod from his master, “gentlemen... take your paces, twenty steps forward, turn and take your shot.” Thomas felt the air grow colder against his back as Byron confidently stepped forward, he forced himself to do the same, counting his steps and gripping the pistol tightly as images of Elizabeth danced in his vision.**

He pondered writing an alternative ending, one where Thomas instead talks to Byron and they settle the matter without a duel. An ending to the story where Thomas gets to live. Even as he thought it, he knew it was futile, this was the way it had to be. Mat knew Thomas well enough to know he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. 

**Eighteen steps, nineteen, twenty. He stopped abruptly and spun around as quickly as he was able to, but Byron was quicker, an expert gunman, swordsman, huntsman. Byron was all of the things Thomas was not, while he was in his room writing poetry and dreaming of his dear Elizabeth, Byron was partaking in blood-sports, it was all good practice for this moment.**

Thomas would have accepted his fate, knowing his actions had led Byron to him with a loaded pistol and a thirst for revenge, in response to his attentions towards Elizabeth. There was a part of Mat that shared Thomas' resolve, even now, knowing today would be the day he died, Thomas would die for his love of Elizabeth. He was prepared to lay down his life for her. The love he felt for Byron's betrothed was keeping his legs firm, keeping him here and willing to see this through. He had accepted the consequences of his actions. He had accepted it would come to this, out on his field, grasping a loaded pistol. Fighting for his life. 

**He saw the sky as it had been on the evening he fist met Elizabeth, felt her warmth next to him as they walked through the garden, arm in arm. He heard her laugh as they talked and felt happiness radiating from her as they danced in the gathering gloom amongst the flowers. He managed to pull his mouth into a pained smile as he remembered the way she had looked into his eyes that night. She had enjoyed his company, that was worth a billion stars in the night sky, he would have reached up and taken them all down for her, for one more evening, one more dance.**

Mat willed away Thomas' memories flashing before his eyes, he was having difficulty enough holding the gun steady as he pointed it at Byron, at Mike. It was as though the world had ceased turning for a moment, pausing to watch this scene playing out on the field. A second dragged by as if it were an hour, time stretched impossibly so that the two hundred years that separated Mat and Thomas faded into nothing. The ghost of time morphing the figure he was pointing his pistol at, from Byron to Mike and back again. In his mind he saw an amalgamation of the two. Mat's arm shook, his vision blurred as Thomas struggled for coherent thought, desperately hoping for his brain to work through the images of Elizabeth and himself in the walled garden, to channel that energy into the here and now. Mat fought to keep his left arm stretched out fully as he was compelled to look over his right shoulder. To Lizzie standing with the Horrible Historians, to Elizabeth standing alone, the two images faded into one another, fuzzy around the edges as if a mirage.

Thomas was ready to accept death, a duel was a gentleman's method of settling disputes, he would take this death in the name of Elizabeth, he would die for his love of her. Mat fought the urge to scream against the injustice, he wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to die here. He loved Lizzie, he loved Elizabeth, but his modern brain fought to find an alternative to this, this was barbaric.

He squinted through the fog in his brain, through everything that was Thomas and everything that was Mat, crashing into one, joining together confusingly as he stared along the barrel of his pistol. He desperately tried to make sense of this, but too late as he heard Mike shout, as if from far away, across two hundred years of time.

'BANG' was Mike's call to signify firing his pistol, Mat could feel the bullet ripping through the rich threads of his Regency waistcoat and shirt, tearing into his flesh. He could almost taste the blood bubbling up into his throat as the pain spread throughout his body. It was Thomas' memories that flashed before his eyes as Mat's knees hit the grass. Through the searing pain in his abdomen and the screaming of images in his mind he was transported away from the present, back to Thomas' world, Thomas' death.

**He pressed his palm into the muscles below his ribs in a vain attempt to prevent his life from flowing out of him and seeping into the already saturated grass, they could have been so much more, he lamented. He would have taken her riding every afternoon and they would have danced every evening until they both passed away peacefully of old age, in each others' arms. That's what she deserves, more than a man like Byron, she deserves to dance.**

The imagined bullet was the catalyst that severed the tie of Mat in the modern world, as he fell onto his back, he fell through time until he became Thomas completely. 

**Thomas, the poet, the dreamer, closed his eyes against the pain, the darkness rushing in to claim him. Before the lights flickered out in his brain he had one final sequence playing in his mind, as clear as if it were a memory of yesterday, bittersweet. He was galloping across the moors again to reach Elizabeth and then finally, mercifully, he was in the walled garden with her. The stars sparkled overhead as he danced with her in the falling darkness. They stepped slowly around in circles on the path, leaning into each other as close as they were able, no words passed between them, it wasn't necessary. Thomas and Elizabeth were united by a stronger bond, they were the main characters in the oldest story in existence. They were the chorus of a song that played throughout the centuries of humanity, echoing around the walled garden. A song from before words had been invented, before time itself.**

Mat was lost in Thomas' pain until the images and noise cleared and he found himself back in his own body. It felt as though a part of him had died with Thomas as he slowly opened his eyes and lay looking up at the sky. The others in the group huddled together, standing away from the duel looking on solemnly, silenced by the performance. 

Mike's sudden burst of laughter broke the tension lying heavily over the field, obnoxiously booming out, too loud for this moment, it roused the audience back to reality. “I hope you'll do that better on the day, Baynton, this isn't panto, your death is supposed to be convincing.” Mat blinked quickly to rid himself of the lingering remnants of Thomas as Jim swept in and offered a hand to Mat, gratefully received as he pulled himself up and dusted himself off. The rest of the Horrible Historians were silent, as if watching Thomas' death scene unfold on the field before them had brought a level of seriousness they weren't expecting to the show. It felt real now for all of them.

Rehearsing Thomas Thorne's death had made him realise how close he'd grown to his character. He felt Thomas' love of Elizabeth whenever he glanced over at Lizzie, the forbidden love for the woman of an enemy. A love that is all consuming but can never be. He felt Thomas still lurking at the fringes of his vision, just behind his eyes and still a loud voice in his mind. He shook his head to banish the images of Byron as he looked over the field at Mike, the ghost of Elizabeth dancing before his eyes. Words in his mind were all Thomas', he couldn't trust himself to speak, feeling only Thomas' sorrow, his anger, his love. Mat ran a hand over his face to shake off Thomas, dispel the image of him dying. He felt like a ghost now. Thomas had been shot, he had died on the field. But then he had opened his eyes, stood – as a different man. He had been given another chance at life as Mat.

Lizzie sidled up beside him, he hadn't seen her approach in his confusion, she laid a gentle hand on his arm, as if to bring him slowly back into the present, as if she knew. She smiled reassuring at him, like you would to someone who's woken up after a coma. “Are you ok?” Her words were soft, he could have mistook them for the breeze as it floated past, carrying away Thomas' memories with it, back to his own time. Her words brought Mat back into the forefront, Lizzie noticed an intensity in his eyes she'd not seen before. The way he had fallen at the simulated gunshot, it had scared her. There was something about it that seemed too real. There was something about Mat lately, whenever she looked at him during rehearsals he looked increasing more like Thomas. It was as though he was growing into the role, taking on Thomas' attributes, she was scared of losing Mat in the process.

She thought for a terrible second she had lost him today, when Mike shouted and Mat fell, she could have sworn she saw a bullet tearing through the air from Mike's gun, thundering into Thomas' stomach as he collapsed onto the grass. It was so real. She had balled her fists tightly and dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from crying out, running to him. That's what Elizabeth would have done, had she been there on that fateful day. Elizabeth would have run to Thomas, cradled his head in her lap, desperately pressed his hand into his wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, covering herself with his blood in the process. She would have done whatever she could to prevent the inevitable, but it would have been to no avail. Thomas would have died that day regardless. He had to, his story was already written, there was no other way. Lizzie would have brushed Thomas' hair from his forehead, touched his cheek fondly as she uttered Elizabeth's words of comfort, of love. She would have seen the shock on Thomas' face, the relief at seeing her, fighting to speak, to tell her, confess his love. 

Elizabeth would silence him, tell him to rest, that help was on the way, only to calm him. Even if Elizabeth had been there that day, all of those years ago, there would be no way she could have reached help in time. Lizzie surreptitiously brushed a tear from her cheek as she watched the final seconds of Thomas' life drain away. If only she could run to Thomas, assure him she loved him and not Byron, share his final breath, she would kiss him and send him into the afterlife with the love she couldn't show him in life.


	5. Chapter 5 -  “I was just pretending to be someone I'm not.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Patty Walters - Dementia
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7d3ZUUnDQbA&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=5

“I love you Elizabeth,” the words hung in the air between them, once stuck in Mat's throat but now the sound was free to fill the space between them as they stood facing each other. The moon bathing them in a gentle glow, bright enough for them to vaguely see each other but not to identify the flowers around them, cast in shadows. The birds singing in the trees above their heads were the only witnesses in the walled garden, Thomas and Elizabeth falling in love as the Horrible Historians were witnessing Mat and Lizzie. 

Mat didn't feel as present or at his best today, he was preoccupied with the memory of rehearsing Thomas' death scene last week. Practising outdoors always made it feel more real for him, easier to visualise the final show and get into character – not that he needed the extra encouragement for the Life of Byron. Mat had watched Mike warming up across the field, jogging on the spot, stretching and singing musical scales. Mat envied him for a moment, Mike's ability to see this as a normal run-through, an average role, a standard show. He doubted Mike heard the gunshot ricocheting around the inside of his brain on a regular basis, even when Mat peeled off Thomas' clothes and changed back into his own, Thomas was still in his head. He couldn't silence the two hundred year old voice now, Thomas was as much a part of him as his shadow.

For those of the troupe who were firmly rooted in the present day rehearsal room, occasional snatches of speech could be heard around the room. Pete was solemnly regaling a long-winded story about how he had reason to believe his house may be haunted, “now according to Derek Acorah's ghost facts...”  
Debbie was not convinced as she murmured “oxymoron.”  
“Yeah he is a bit,” Pete reluctantly agreed.

An apprentice joined the stagehands, clustered around a pile of speakers and a mass of wires, as they were discussing logistics, “perfect, a little helper! How are you at holding stuff?”  
“It's on my CV, but then again so's computer skills and I've no idea what that means.”  
“Good enough, come, hold that lever.”

Another group were discussing acting and their previous shows, “Martha you are brilliant.”  
“I was just pretending to be someone I'm not, I was trapped, but now...oh, how ironic.” The conversation faded away into background noise as another one broke above the general murmur in the room. “I'm old and forgetful but at least I'm not old and forgetful!” A line delivered with perfect timing from Larry, to which Simon replied “No, no but it's not funny at the end of the day is it? It's serious.” Then Jim's voice, “oh, how many times?! I was drunk!”

Mat and Lizzie seemed to be the only ones seriously rehearsing for the show, they recited their lines to each other earnestly, pouring out their frustrations and thinly-disguised love for each other, they were lost to the world in each other's company. This was in stark contrast to the conversations from the others, who were easily distracted from their work, some of whom were now laughing at the latest viral video of monkeys in a safari park. One or two people gradually found their attention drawn to Mat and Lizzie, passionately acting out the tale of the Georgian couple in their private corner. Osmosis was occurring slowly, as more and more of the Horrible Historians fell silent and turned to watch. This heart-warming, heart-breaking play unfolding before their eyes, they felt the magic the public would soon have the pleasure of witnessing. It was captivating, it was intoxicating. 

By degrees everyone had now ceased their conversations, sporadically stalling into silence instead, drawn to Mat and Lizzie's performance. The awed hush of the onlookers broken with “she doesn't sound very impressive,” muttered by a disgruntled upstaged extra, to which Ben retorted “Trevor you're a blob.”

Unnoticed by the two stars of the show, Martha, Jim, Ben, Larry and Simon had all edged closer, their attentions drawn irrefutably to these star-crossed lovers, giving the performance of their lives. It was a show too big for this hall, the drama created by the pair filled the air around them, expanding until it enveloped all of the Horrible Historians within it's folds. The show demanded witnesses, it was Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique unfolding, filling every mundane corner with a spark of life, love and drama. 

“I love you too,” Lizzie almost whispered, choked with emotion, her love for him, his love for her, the futility of their situation. Thomas and Elizabeth were no more than actors in their own time, reading from a predetermined script. Their lives had been mapped out for them at birth, who they would turn out to be, who they were allowed to fall in love with, which path they would take and which would be forever out of bounds for them. 

Thomas was Elizabeth's forbidden path, her overgrown trail into the unknown forest, a path she must never acknowledge. She had instead been assigned a paved city street, the expensive brick of the cobbles scrubbed clean over the wide expanse spanning between affluent shops, a place of established safety and familiarity. The place she belonged. 

Elizabeth had halted on her path, unthinkable, and turned her head to the side, unimaginable. She had gazed past the bright city streetlights to the dim light filtering between the trees, to the wild forest trail meandering through the tightly packed trees. As soon as she noticed this other path she knew there was no other option but to follow it, her stumbling footsteps hesitant to leave the safety of the cobbles, but also determined. Elizabeth didn't feel the need to look back over her shoulder at the city she was leaving behind, knowing with absolute certainty the forest was where she belonged. It was a deeply ingrained truth, unknown to her conscious mind until she had been presented with this option, but so familiar as if it had been laying dormant in her subconscious all of her life, a feral instinct re-awoken. Meeting Thomas was the catalyst , pulling her life in another direction, there was no alternative for her now, there never had been. Thomas was her only way forward.

Elizabeth reached out as if to brush the metaphorical branches aside to clear a way through the undergrowth and instead felt Thomas' reassuring grasp. Instinct told her everything would be fine as long as she could feel him near. Any storm could be weathered, any obstacle overcome, any enemy vanquish-able. It would be Elizabeth and Thomas from this moment forward, nothing more, but that would be enough.

The sudden burst of applause shattered the illusion for them both, Mat and Lizzie appeared groggy and unfocused. It was as though they had had awoken from a deep sleep, or stepped out of a dark room into blinding sunlight and were willing their eyesight to adjust quickly. They reluctantly drew their gaze away from one another, feeling as though they were walking a tightrope suspended between two mountain peaks and had been instructed to let go of the safety rope. They cautiously glanced around the room and slowly digested the scene around them, their brains skimming back to the present from 200 years ago. It would take a moment to slot the pieces of this confusing puzzle back into a semblance of understanding. 

Lizzie was the first to recover from the surprise applause of the unexpected audience, her mind reeling, part of her still lingering in the walled garden with Thomas. She had, however, recovered a passable level of coherence since her virtual journey to the past and shoved those thoughts, memories, images - to the back of her consciousness. Lizzie was able to now focus on the present and dropped into a theatrical bow for the audience, in an attempt to laugh away the awkwardness and squeeze away the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“You made us feel so snug, just like a fitted sheet.” Lizzie heard someone call to her and Mat through the applause, but couldn't quite focus her vision to pinpoint the speaker. She glanced to the side, partially to hide her face but also to seek reassurance Mat was still with her. She searched for his reaction, if he was calm she could be too. She was dismayed to see him frozen as if in horror, feeling the space between them stretch out until they were separated by a hundred miles – two hundred years. She wanted to reach out to him, to hold his arm, pull him close, for them to share that moment together, but her arm hung immobile at her side, she understood how Elizabeth felt, trapped.

Mat watched her awkwardly react to the group, struggling to surface from the ocean of history. He had been with Elizabeth a moment ago, and now they were in a different place, they were different people. He struggled to leave the walled garden and fought the urge to pull Lizzie towards him and back into that world they now shared. To waltz with her in the garden, to be Thomas and Elizabeth, if he could only reach out and touch her now, they could forever remain, dancing in the freedom of the moonlight. 

In his mind the garden was disappearing, slowing slipping back through time where it belonged. The stars were extinguished - a million candles snuffed out - the trees shook and faded into the gathering night, the walls crumbled to dust and the path fell from underneath his feet. He felt himself falling back through time, back to his own time, his feet now planted on smooth tiles, caged in by these four unscalable walls, enclosed by the ceiling. He was no longer able to see the sky or smell the roses, there were no birds singing in the hall, it was unbearable.

He dropped his gaze as his brain struggled with the fight to remain in the 1800's and the present reality clawing him back, his heart sank further as he took in his jeans and converse – a style he once loved that now felt so wrong. So out of place. He was deeply uncomfortable and fought the urge to rip off his modern clothes, longing for a pure cotton shirt, breeches and a silken waistcoat. Mat was confused and angry, he felt suffocated by his life here. He pulled at the neckline of his t-shirt, suddenly feeling constrained, itchy and incredibly hot, as if these accursed clothes were shrinking on his body, wrapping him up, trapping him in this life that wasn't his. 

He was dimly aware of people talking around him, congratulating him and Lizzie, he felt a hand on his shoulder and struggled to fight the spiralling dizziness that now threatened to engulf him. A gale ripped through the walled garden, the birds taking wing in terror, the tree branches shuddering involuntarily, the bricks of the walls vibrating and screaming in protest. This was all in his head but no less deafening than had he been standing in a cotton mill. It was overwhelming his senses as his vision narrowed. 

And he ran.


	6. Chapter 6 - “This world's not so bad.  There's still stuff worth fighting for.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Peter Gabriel – Solsbury Hill
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OO2PuGz-H8&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=6

Mat burst through the external doors of the community centre, gasping for breath as he staggered out to the low wall that marked the edge of the car park. After the sudden claustrophobia of the rehearsal hall he was grateful for the fresh air and drunk it in. Drawing it desperately into his lungs as if he were a drowning man pulled from the swell at the final moment before being dragged under.  
He fought to control his breathing and his mind spinning between the birds singing in the walled garden in the 1800's and the rumble of cars on the nearby road in 2019. Both sounds were real to him, fighting to be heard.

Mat felt sick, too hot, dizzy, restrained. He closed his eyes to block out the view of the car park spinning, his vision morphing from the cars to the walled garden and back, so fast he couldn't focus on either. Fighting to control his breathing, he balled his fists and lowered his head to his hands, until his knuckles pressed into his eyelids, desperately trying to push the pain and confusion away and not scream out loud.

The stars that burst into his closed eyes were the same as those that hung in the night sky over the walled garden, as his vision panned down to the couple dancing slowly, heedless to the world around them. That's what he wanted, that's where he wanted to be.

Mat wrenched open his eyes, despite craving - needing that image - that film in his mind constantly replaying. It tore him apart every time he allowed himself to look, to live, to imagine that life. It was killing him but it was sustaining him, Thomas was a part of him. The man in the walled garden dancing with his love was the same man having a panic attack in a car park, having just ran away from his love. Thomas was a projection of his best self, everything he wanted to be, what he hoped he could achieve.

He lifted his head towards the sky, lowered his arms to his sides and pressed his palms into the wall either side of him, his fingers clawing the brick, finding the sharp pieces and pressing harder. He believed if he could feel pain, he could block out the images of the walled garden that were consuming him. He could reduce his world back to the here and now, bring him back to this wall, at this community centre, in 2019. He was slowly becoming aware of the pain in his hands but it was detached from him, happening to someone else, like distant thunder, he was aware of an approaching problem but didn't need to immediately deal with it The urge to scream was still too prevalent. 

Jim cautiously opened the front door and quietly closed it behind him as he observed Mat on the wall, hyperventilating, shaking and staring off into the distance. He sighed as he gingerly made his way towards Mat and lowered himself slowly onto the wall next to him. He said nothing for a moment, taking note of Mat's laboured breathing and waiting for the flood of emotion he was clearly holding back to subside enough to talk, or burst forth and they could deal with the fallout.

“Deep breaths,” Jim eventually murmured, breathing in deeply himself, “in through the nose....hold it.” He, like Mat, was staring straight ahead, but Jim could only see a strip of grass, the parked cars and a hedge that was in front of them. He knew Mat was somewhere else now, with a completely different view. He didn't need to know where Mat was, what he was seeing or what demons he was currently battling, he just needed to stay with his friend through this and bring him back to the present here on this wall. “...And out through the mouth,” Jim pursed his lips and slowly released his breath, repeating his breathing technique with spoken instructions, hoping Mat would eventually join in.

Mat felt like a caged animal, still resisting the urge to rip off his restrictive clothes and scream, to release this tension. There was a deep burning anger and energy inside him, he wanted to run from it, from this place, from himself. If only he could run fast enough, far enough. He could escape from who he was, from this scene playing endlessly inside his head but still so far out of reach. He couldn't find the breath to fill his lungs or tell his legs to move. He felt a primal instinct he couldn't fight, as it coursed through his body like an electric current screaming 'this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong.'

He was torn between a life where he knew he belonged and a world he couldn't escape from. The space inside his head expanded as large as the universe as he was living out his life as Thomas, but now there had been a big bang and that world had shrunk to the size of a prison cell. A small, dark space inside his mind where nothing felt real any longer and he couldn't exist in either world. 

He couldn't focus, couldn't think about anything but the spinning and tightening inside him, reduced to basic instincts telling him to run and scream the pain away. He was lost, two hundred miles and two hundred years away from the wall he was sitting on as he fought these urges, this rising panic. The familiar image of the walled garden was the only thing that could push out the vision of the prison cell, it was his safe place, but it was causing him a desperate longing. Manifesting as a pain in his chest, struggling to breathe, wading through the fog of confusion in his head as he fought for control over his own body.

Slowly, very slowly - something else pushed through the rushing thoughts, flashing images, spinning memories, dreams whirling as one to the sound of his internal screaming. This something was calming, reassuring. It forced the incessant screaming to quieten to a conversational volume in curiosity, even the racing images flashing before his eyes slowed to observe this new thing. Mat felt his body respond and release tension before he was consciously aware of what was going on.

He felt his lungs pull in fresh country air and hold it, the familiar but recently forgotten instinct of controlled breathing now taking over from the screaming. There was a voice in the prison cell now that was chasing away the darkness, pushing the walls and ceiling outwards, opening up the space with it's calming power. There were cracks of sunlight flooding in until the walls faded completely into the distance, now all he could hear was a familiar soothing voice in his ears as well as inside his head “...and out through your mouth...”

Mat slowly opened his eyes and was briefly taken aback, blinking in the afternoon sun, he had forgotten how much light and colour there was in the world. He found himself unconsciously following Jim's guided breathing as the two men straightened their posture and flared their nostrils to fill their lungs in unison. Jim kept going until he was sure Mat's breathing was back to normal and he saw Mat's shoulders loosen, sensing the tension fall away from Mat as a thick layer of coal dust falls from a pitman once he reaches the surface and steps back into the breeze.

Jim softly patted Mat's back and reached an arm across his shoulders to squeeze his collarbone before handing Mat a bottle of water, “good to have you back, buddy. I lost you for a moment there.”

Mat gratefully accepted the water and stared down intently at the transparent liquid as it sloshed against the inside of the bottle. He rubbed his thumb over the label, trying to drag the right words from the mire of his mind but couldn't find the words he wanted, he gave up. He ran his right hand back through his hair as if dispelling the last of the darkness still clinging to him, lurking in the corners of his mind. “Sorry,” he mumbled to the bottle. 

“Don't apologize....I mean it Mat, don't ever apologize if you need to take a moment to find yourself.” The two men had still not looked at each other, they had been staring straight ahead, an unspoken understanding passing between them now, a wave of support from Jim and a corresponding wave of gratitude from Mat.

“You know I'm here for you...for all of you...if you ever need to talk.”  
Mat smiled thankfully at Jim, “I don't know what happened there...I just needed a moment. I'm not going to let this get in the way of the show. This world's not so bad, there's still stuff worth fighting for.”  
Mat paused, realising too late that was more than he had intended to say, too serious. He felt as though he had to explain how he was feeling to Jim, but after searching silently for the right words, he knew they wouldn't reveal themselves and he had to settle for something inferior. “I'm tired of being sad, I just want a bit of happy.”

Jim cleared his throat so his voice didn't crack with the emotion he was holding back, feigning strength for Mat's sake, before he continued. “Good to know you're still focused on the show, but if you need a distraction I can listen, we can go for a walk, a pint. We can sit in silence if you want to, if you ever need time out from the group you don't have to explain why. We can work around you, around anyone who needs it. But before I let you back in there,” he nodded his head to the right, indicating the building. “I need you to promise me you'll take the time to work through this, and not keep things bottled up.”

Mat kept his head low so Jim wouldn't see the tears in his eyes and nodded, he didn't trust himself to speak. “Good,” Jim reached over and patted Mat's knee affectionately, “we've all got stuff going on and I know the Horrible Historians are a break from real life, it certainly is for me...but I need us all to be taking a break, when even this gets too much.” He paused for a moment and they sat in companionable silence before Jim continued, “you're great as Thomas, I can see you're really getting into it and everyone can feel your energy. The chemistry between you and Lizzie...” Mat visibly flinched, Jim noticed with a knowing look in Mat's direction, “...is really something, but when there's other things going on, take a break, step back.”

He turned to focus on the side of Mat's head, “starting now...go home, relax. I don't want to see you or Lizzie in rehearsals for at least a week. You've both been putting the time and effort in with this and you've got it down now, you both need to take time for yourselves.”

Jim stood, “drink up, go home, I'll text you later.” He looked down at Mat before he turned to head back inside the community centre, “Mat?” The younger man looked up, “you know where I am mate.” Mat nodded and smiled gratefully as he watched Jim until he was inside the building, when he was alone again he sighed deeply and took a long swig of the water, grateful for Jim, for Lizzie, the whole group. He was glad the panic attack had passed and he was soothed by the image of the walled garden in his mind once again. It was his happy place now, it calmed him when he needed to forget the present, the memory of rehearsing with Lizzie, the almost-memory of dancing with Elizabeth.

He took a deep breath and lifted his head to the sky, he had to keep reminding himself who he was and what he was doing. 'I am Mat,' he thought forcefully. 'Thomas is a fictional character from two hundred years ago, he isn't me. I'm not him...I just have to play the part of him for the show...the Life of Byron is going to be the best show we've done as a group. I'm going to make sure of it...with Thomas' help.' He smiled wryly, not quite believing himself and Thomas were different people, he seemed very real right now, but he was confident about the show – that was the important part.

Mat felt for his car key in his pocket, what he needed now right now was a long walk with Kitty.


	7. Chapter 7 - “Is this you teaching me to embrace the chaos?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Dermott Kennedy – All My Friends
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HwYy26LLNs&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=7

His phone buzzed as he was driving home, it lay forgotten on the passenger seat until Mat pulled into his driveway and switched off the engine. He was reluctant to check his phone, assuming it would be one of the Horrible Historians checking up on him and he wasn't ready to explain what had happened in the rehearsal room, or accept their help, not yet. He needed time to figure this out for himself first.

The text brought a reluctant smile as he read it twice, _“hey Mat, hope you're ok. I'm here if you want to talk. Jim's right, we do need to take time away from this, I could do with some company if you're up for it? If not, totally understand & I'll see you at rehearsals in a week?!”_

He leaned forward, since his panic attack he'd been numb, going through the motions without feeling, but now he felt a kick of excitement, like he experienced during rehearsals. He rested his right arm along the steering wheel, drumming his thumb against the front of the wheel in concentration before he replied.

_'Thanks, I shouldn't have let it get to that, sorry for the way I left. I'm taking Kit to the riverside now, I can pick you up on the way if you want?'_

_'YES PLEASE! I'll be ready in 30 mins.'_ The reply was instantaneous and Mat grinned, finally feeling the emptiness inside had been replaced with contentment once again. Despite the bad start, this afternoon was turning out well.

Kitty was as enthusiastic as ever when he turned his key in the lock and slowly opened the door, to be greeted instantly with a wet nose pushing through the small gap, followed by a blur of white and russet fur, a swaying tail bringing up the rear. As always she calmed down and stood still while he clipped on her harness, scratching her ears as he did so. He briefly pressed his forehead against hers, the grounding he needed right now, before he gathered anything else he'd need while Kitty waited at the front door.

She shot out of the door as soon as it was opened, running to the back door of the car and sat expectantly staring at the door until it was opened for her to jump in. “Wanna see Lizzie?” Mat asked, using the voice people reserve for talking to animals and babies, Kit cocked her head to the side as if listening intently and Mat ruffled her ears as he clipped her into the seatbelt. “yeah, me too.”

The lady in question was waiting on her street as Mat pulled up, looking worried as she opened the door, she almost dived into the car and wrapped an arm around Mat's neck. He awkwardly returned the one armed hug. “Sorry,” he murmured into her hair, he was more overcome with emotion than he thought he'd be, Lizzie's hug had taken him by surprise and overwhelmed his defences. 

Lizzie pulled away and looked at him quizzically, Mat elaborated “for running out on you like that. It turns out today was not really my vibe.”  
“It's ok,” she pulled her seatbelt and clicked it into place while Mat stared straight ahead, not wanting her to read the emotions flicking across his face as they fought for control in his brain. Lizzie shot a furtive sideways glance at him, she wanted reassurance he was coping, but didn't know how to ease his internal conflict. She hoped the fresh air of the walk would help him to open up and for them both to talk about what was going on.

Mat drove off and Lizzie twisted in her seat, looking over her shoulder at Kitty on the back seat, waiting patiently to be greeted, “hey Kit!” The dog wagged and nuzzled the offered hand affectionately, Lizzie smiled warmly, happy to be around Kitty with her infectious energy. Lizzie turned back to Mat with a resumed serious expression, “I'm really glad you texted me back, I thought you'd need time alone...but I knew I needed company today. It would have felt too weird in the house by myself after being around you and the group so much lately.”

Mat nodded, focused on the road, “I get that, I had planned for a walk alone with Kit, but when you texted it felt right to share it with someone, you specifically. I mean Kitty's a great listener, but she's terrible at giving advice.” He sharply inclined his head backwards to indicate the dog on the back seat as he spoke, her ears pricked at the mention of her name. She unfolded herself from a lying position, sitting to attention and Lizzie turned to smile at her briefly.

“Plus,” Mat continued, “Jim made me promise not to keep things bottled up - and like you said - he's right.” He risked a quick smile to Lizzie, which was warmly reciprocated.  
“Typical Jim! Looking out for us as always...When you left he looked over to make sure I was ok, then rushed straight out to find you.”

Mat thought about this for a moment, unwillingly reliving his morning, “I don't remember him being with me straight away...” It was Lizzie's turn to pause in reflection, “Larry followed him out, he came back to tell us Jim was at the vending machine in reception, getting water for you, he told Larry to take me home and make sure I took a break...he said me and you both needed one.”

Mat clenched his jaw in frustration, he loved his fellow performers but didn't want them all to know what had happened to him, “so...everyone knows I had a panic attack?” He looked devastated and irritated, Lizzie guessed the anger was directed inwards at himself. He would be vexed at being unable to express his feelings, keeping his frustration bottled up. Lizzie tentatively touched his knee, she had grown close to him with the rehearsals and knew he sometimes got lost in himself. It was as though his mind went elsewhere and he needed someone to bring him back, she was learning his mannerisms and felt she could always find him when this happened. She didn't want to ask him where he went but she had a feeling it involved Thomas and Elizabeth.

“They don't think any less of you,” she murmured soothingly. Mat briefly glanced down at Lizzie's hand on his knee, Lizzie – fearing over-familiarity – quickly withdrew her hand. “I'm no good with these things, words don't seem to be enough.” Lizzie took a deep breath as if drawing in courage from the air before continuing, “but you know we're all here for you. That's what Horrible Historians are all about, putting on a show but being there for each other, support in our work and our real lives. The costumes in real life aren't as fun, the dialogue isn't as funny and there's much fewer occasions we're applauded, we've got to be each other's therapists through everything.”

Mat replied, deadpan, “we're therapists? Fuck. I thought we were historical re-enactment actors?! Have I been doing it wrong this whole time?” He looked at Lizzie in mock horror and she laughed.  
“OK, I take back what I said about our real life dialogue not being as funny – you're a legitimate clown Mathew Baynton!”  
“Good to know my time in Paris wasn't wasted.”

Lizzie considered her next words as she watched the houses and trees slipping past the passenger window, not wanting to offend Mat if she phrased her thoughts insensitively, especially after the morning he'd experienced. She felt as though she needed to say something, about his character, the way he played Thomas but she wanted to keep it light. She cleared her throat subtly, “Mat, you know I mean this in the best way...”  
Mat glanced over to her, worried what she was about to say, Lizzie continued. “You're like that woman in the book...”  
“You might have to narrow that down a bit.”  
“You know the one, the cobweb-by one.”  
“Spiderwoman?”  
“No, from the old days...Haversham!”  
Mat shot her an amused and slightly offended look, Lizzie couldn't hold her laughter back any longer and Mat grudgingly joined in.  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Lizzie grinned at him, “what I'm trying to say is, I'm a big fan of your work. You take Thomas – a broken man – and you give him life, you bring joy to his suffering. But because his story isn't a happy one, that's bound to take it's toll on you. He's got a lot going on, as have you, it's all about finding that balance between doing him justice and looking after yourself. Get lost in the role, but don't lose yourself in the process.”  
Mat nodded “is this you teaching me to embrace the chaos?”  
Lizzie nodded slowly, “good way to put it, yeah it is. We all need to embrace the chaos.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence, Mat focused on the road, Lizzie gazing distractedly out of the passenger window, Kitty lay down on the back seat. They were all lost momentarily in their own thoughts, those of the dog easiest to guess – she hoped they were heading to their usual river walk, but would be happy with these humans wherever they ended up. The humans were more difficult to read, Lizzie appeared to be mulling over what else she wanted to say, searching for the right words, weighing up her desire to speak against the impact her words could have. She appeared, at least for now, content to remain silent until she could vocalise a more positive take on today's events. Mat gave the impression of calm, no sign of his earlier troubles, buoyed by this time with his beloved Kit - and Lizzie. 

It was easy to feel comfortable with Lizzie around, by his side for strength and companionship, he relaxed knowing they were to spend the next few hours together. No pressure to do anything or be anyone, he didn't have to pretend around her, that's what he liked about Lizzie. It felt natural and easy to be in her company. Especially heading to his and Kit's favourite riverside walk, they could all leave their troubles in the car while they enjoyed the tranquility of nature. He always felt the fresh air and miles of open space were very healing, this is what he needed after his disasterous morning, to be spending the rest of the day with his two favourite ladies.

They pulled into the car park as Kitty pressed her nose against the window, recognising the surroundings and sniffing the river scent in the air from the partially opened window, she was eager to be out and running. As soon as Mat unclipped her from the seatbelt she bounded down the path and disappeared around the corner. Mat unhurriedly locked the car as Lizzie anxiously watched the path Kitty had taken, “Do you worry about her when you can't see her?” She asked,  
“nah,” Mat smiled reassuringly. “I know exactly where she is, we've been coming here since she was a pup, we've got a routine. I'm too slow to get moving apparently, so she runs down the boat ramp and has a swim, by the time we get to that monument,” he raised his arm to point out the white obelisk opposite. The artwork was on the opposite bank, separated from the car park by the closed square bracket shaped path – in the middle lay the unseen boat ramp dropping down into the river - “she'll deign to join us again.”

They took to the narrow path between the car park and the boat ramp as Lizzie replied, “I love the relationship you two have, it's the cutest thing.”  
“Yeah, she's my world, she's always been as good as gold, really easy to train. I know everyone thinks they've got the best dog, but – spoiler alert...” he leaned in closer for a conspiratorial whisper, “I really do.”  
Lizzie laughed, “well your secret's safe with me,” they rounded the corner, both turning to the left to watch Kitty swim happily from one side of the inlet to the other. 

“Keep walking,” Mat instructed, “she'll never come out if she knows she's got an audience.” They passed the ramp and joined the path on the other side of the inlet, keeping the river close to their left and the children's play park on the right. “Does she ever swim out into the river?” Lizzie asked, the worry in her voice mirrored on Mat's face, a memory shadowed his features. “Once,” he replied, “she was still young and hadn't been in open water off lead. She started heading out to the middle, I called her back to the bank but she wasn't having it. I was shouting as she reached the middle, she eventually turned to swim back to shore but I could see she was struggling, the currents were pulling her and she wasn't strong enough...I thought I'd have to jump in after her, I pulled my jacket off, but thankfully she made it back. I was so angry with her then, but I reckon that's the tightest I've held her. I kept her on lead for months when we came here after that.”

“Oh,” Lizzie couldn't imagine his panic in that moment, “she's as tough as old boots that one...like her dad.” She elbowed him playfully in the ribs and the shadow left his face as he returned her smile, “not if today's anything to go by.” They both looked over their shoulders as Kitty thundered up the path behind them, zooming past and spraying droplets of river water in her wake, she ran ahead to the wide strip of grass and woodland beyond the play park. Once they watched her pass, Mat continued, “I am sorry for how I handled things today, it wasn't fair on you.”

“You can stop apologising, it really is OK, I would much rather you did that rather than let things get worse.” They continued up the gravel path, occasionally watching the river to their left, people on the opposite bank, walking, jogging and cycling in the Willows nature reserve. Their gaze often shifted to the right to check on Kitty, who was either charging happily across the grass or carefully picking her way through the sparse trees behind.

Lizzie observed the dog for a while, before turning to Mat, “I don't think I ever asked, why did you call your dog Kitty?” Mat grinned, “I wanted something unusual, I thought about a name that would be the worst for a dog. I know it's stupid, but she started responding to the name and it just stuck. I usually call her Kit for short, that sounds much cooler. I can tell people she's named after Kit Marlowe if I want to sound more sophisticated.”


	8. Chapter 8 - “He's just like you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Callum Scott – What I Miss Most
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7gh2fmdjCU&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=8

Lizzie was working up to what she needed to say, searching the rippling currents in the river for the right words, the breeze billowing through the leaves of the trees and Kit's fur as she ran alongside them. Lizzie took her time before she spoke again, “I asked if you wanted to meet up because I wanted to talk about the show, about us...” She trailed off, she didn't have a strong enough grip on her words and they were snatched away on the breeze. Mat sensed her struggle and asked gently, “do you want to sit down? There's a bench not far ahead.”

“Yeah, give me time to find the words, I told you I was no good at this.”  
“It's harder than it seems to talk honestly, that's what I'm learning from today,” Mat reassured her, “I didn't realise how difficult it is to be really honest. It feels like keeping things from people - from yourself - is easier than dealing with problems, getting on with life in silence. But it's not healthy, I know that now. I feel better already being out in the fresh air, in this beautiful place. There's something about nature and this freedom that puts things into perspective, brings things into focus, things that seem important in the confines of the city fade away to background noise here.”

They left the path when it split into two, to the left there was a gap in the trees where a bench overlooking the river had been placed, to make the most of the view. Mat whistled to keep Kit close as Lizzie stood in front of the bench and quietly read out the inscription on the plaque. “He lived, laughed, loved, and left,” that's a beautiful memorial - and what a great legacy to have, a bench here - overlooking the river, for everyone to enjoy.”

Mat affirmed, “I'd like that,” Lizzie looked around, taking in the open space behind the bench, leading to a row of cottages. The tunnel of trees they had emerged from to the right - and to the left, the path snaking into the tall wildflowers, she was unsure. “Is there somewhere else we can sit? It feels very exposed here.”  
“Yeah, there's plenty of places further up, we've hardly started the walk yet, you've not seen any of the best bits, this has been the tame, civilised part so far.”

Lizzie's face lit up with an uncomplicated happiness, the result of being outdoors on a fine day, fresh air and river spray in the air, the prospect of an adventure. “Come on then, show me the wild side of this place.” Mat grinned, sharing her happiness as he re-joined the path and headed towards the bank of wildflowers, ensuring Kit was still close. They followed the path winding between the grass that reached waist height, Kitty now staying near them, not keen on the grass taller than she was. They approached another fork in the path before long, Kit started down the right trail that led along the side of a farmer's field but Mat whistled for her to return and they took the left path, this route much more overgrown and hugging the riverbank.

This route was a desire path, a thin strip of well-trodden dirt, with the precariously close steep bank of the river to the left and a more manageable slope up to the edge of a field to the right. They were forced to walk in single file, edging around muddy patches and stepping carefully over rocks that had been exposed in the trail over many years, by adventuring footfalls and erosion. Lizzie followed Kitty, the most sure-footed and fastest of the trio, with Mat trailing behind. Lizzie kept her vision fixed on the river, as much as the uneven surface of the path would allow. The afternoon sun gleaming on the water, illuminating individual ripples through the sparse trees clinging onto the riverbank. Lizzie stopped suddenly, her attention dragged away from the river by the obstacle in the path. Mat had been watching Lizzie instead of the river and so had avoided a collision, “what's up?” he leaned to the side, as much as he felt safe to do so, to see why Lizzie had stopped.

Lizzie turned, accusingly but with a playful, excited glint in her eyes, “what's this? I thought we were going for a nice chilled-out stroll today." Mat returned her grin, confused but playing along, “is that not what we're doing?” Lizzie swept her left arm behind her, indicating the path that lay ahead, “you failed to mention the chasm we'd have to jump across. I didn't bring my mountaineering gear!”  
“Kit made it, no problem,” Mat nodded to his dog, who had easily lept across the space and now sat on the other side, waiting patiently for them to follow.  
“She's a dog Mat, twice as many legs and a much lower centre of gravity.”  
“Alright, my morning's been tough enough without this negativity, we can do this!” He smiled encouragingly as he edged around her, gingerly toed the brink of the gap and peered over. A few loose stones broke off and tumbled down, following the natural divot into the river, he took a few steps back, turned to grin at Lizzie and asked “what would Thomas Thorne do?”

Before she could think of an answer, or in fact conjure an image of Thomas in this scenario, Mat had propelled himself forward and thrown himself across the gap. He scrambled upright and dusted himself off theatrically. The triumphant smile he gave Lizzie felt, to her, exactly what Thomas would have done. Lizzie identified strongly with Elizabeth in that moment, she was in the country with a man she felt deeply for but could not spend her life with, someone who always knew how to entertain her and find a solution to problems. If only he could solve the biggest issue they both faced right now. The physical gap between her and Mat in the present day represented the insurmountable barrier of societal rules imposed on Elizabeth and Thomas. He looked at her sincerely, “do you trust me?” He held out his hand to her across the gap as he clung onto a nearby tree with his other hand for balance.

Lizzie knew what Elizabeth would do - despite the pressure of her upbringing, her betrothal, the certainty of being cast out of society for following her heart. Despite all of that, Lizzie knew there was only one option, she reached out her hand to Thomas across the gap. Mat grasped her hand, his touch reassuring, his positive determination more so, she murmured “I trust Thomas.”

Mat swelled with pride and realisation, he pulled her across as she jumped and he let go of the tree to steady her as she landed. They stood inches apart, Mat and Lizzie in the modern day country park, but also Thomas and Elizabeth in the Regency farmland. As if watching a television through static, they were both there and not there. The chasm of space that was physically in their path also represented the two hundred years of history they were embroiled in, distorting their silhouettes enough to be ambiguous. The fog of time swirling around them, clearing enough one moment to show them as Mat and Lizzie, clouding over, then again clearing to reveal Thomas and Elizabeth. The snaking tendrils surrounding them like a cape, flicking between the two worlds and their two selves. Both real, both true, however - one reality was easier to live in, unfortunately it wasn't the one they both desired. The other life they could have lived was calling to them, claiming them, drawing them in, they were both struggling to resist the urge to surrender to that world, knowing it could never be. 

They stood by the river but were also in a walled garden, the birds singing and the breeze rustling through the trees were constant in both, the river surging onwards, onwards present in only one vision. The open space of the fields to one side and the river on the other felt more oppressive than the walls of the garden, the two worlds spinning together, drifting in and out of focus. The two of them in the eye of the storm, worlds raging around them, fighting for control while they danced in the moonlit garden or stood holding each other's arms by the river. 

In an instant the spell was broken by Kitty, returning to see what was taking them so long to catch up to her. Didn't they know she had paths to scout out? Fields to explore? She nuzzled their clasped arms and they were shaken from their visions, the walled garden fading back into the present day riverside. They broke apart, both awkward and guilty of their shared experience.

“That was very Thomas of you,” Lizzie murmured as she tucked her hair behind her ear and turned to keep walking, to dispel the awkwardness. The unspoken something that passed between them, hanging heavily in the air under the weight of two hundred years of time and two lifetimes of yearning. Difficult to describe and more so to grasp, like a will-o'-the-wisp, but as solid to them both as a monolith.

As they moved on Mat cursed himself silently for not doing something in that moment, finding the right words, reaching out to Lizzie, explaining how he felt. Spilling his truth to her, in this perfect secluded place. He took a deep breath of the fresh country air as his eyes swept across the field and distant trees to the right, Lizzie on the narrow trail in front and the river flowing to the left. The rushing water never pausing or adapting to the world around it, surging forward with the single-minded determination of reaching the sea. How he longed for a portion of the river's resolve and power in this moment, to guide him on his path and give him the strength of the current. He nudged a pebble with his foot in frustration, watching it tumble down the steep bank, lost in the grass and rocks before it reached the river.

They walked on, the moment soon forgotten as the trail snaked up through the trees and further from the river's edge. They pushed through overgrown gorse bushes and emerged at the edge of a corn field, a trail of mud bare of crops highlighted the way, they proceeded side by side as this trail was much wider than the river bank. They fell into step together and happily chatted about their lives, how rehearsals were progressing, their ideas and hopes for the show – nothing seemed too far-fetched in this field. Occasionally a stick was thrown for Kit, less occasionally it was returned.

Their trail led them around the outskirts of the field and right, away from the river onto a bridleway, it opened up to a wide avenue flanked by towering firs. Kit ventured further ahead as she could clearly see her humans following on this path, she was happily darting from side to side to explore the undergrowth at either edge. Mat and Lizzie were content to take a more direct route straight along the path, more relaxed here not having to watch their footfalls for muddy puddles. There was no longer any need to stay alert for areas of the riverbank fallen away into the unforgiving river, precariously close to them. Now they could spend more time in conversation and shoot furtive glances at one another.

“What I've been struggling with lately, is separating you and Thomas. He's just like you.”  
Mat thought about this as Lizzie paused to throw the stick Kitty had dropped at her feet expectantly. 

“You were a dark horse for the Life of Byron, I wasn't expecting you to audition for Thomas, didn't think it would be your forte. But once you stood up there, I knew you were right for the part, now you're carrying this show, like a knight's trusty steed.” Mat grinned at the compliment, “and the show would be the knight in your analogy?”  
“Yeah, shut up,” Lizzie laughed, “it sounded better in my head.” 

Mat joined in with her laughter, “well in that case...” He bowed low, tucking his left arm against his stomach and sweeping his right arm down in an arc to his knees, declaring dramatically, “you're looking at the white horse himself.”


	9. Chapter 9 -  “I'm not anyone special I'm just an ordinary guy.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Dog Ears – Like Rain
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_B6AOjZejc&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=9

There seemed to be a solemn hush on the blanket of pine needles that lined the path, trees towering overhead, leaning in to whisper to one another as Mat and Lizzie passed underneath. After another mile the path opened out to a village, they cut through the modern car park, at odds with the traditional rough stone houses bordering it. They stopped to look at the river as they crossed the bridge, the wide expanse flowing underneath, mostly calm on the surface but swirling eddies were visible in places. The force of the water tumbling over hidden rocks in it's haste to reach the sea. Mat and Lizzie continued to the Victorian train station with it's beautifully preserved pedestrian bridge over the track, they took the hidden path adjacent to the tracks and re-joined the river path.

“This way,” Mat gestured, leaving the path and pushing through the bushes, Lizzie followed unquestioningly, with Kitty keeping close to her heels. The three adventurers broke through the trees and found themselves at a large, flat, rocky area at the river's edge. They picked their way carefully over the stones until Lizzie reached a larger flat rock close to the water. She sat down and watched Kit tentatively dip her paws in and wade along the shallows. Mat perched next to Lizzie and she felt tension radiating from him as he focused on Kitty, Lizzie followed his gaze and noted his clenched jaw.

“She's ok.” Mat visibly relaxed and transferred his attention from Kitty to Lizzie, “I know,” he smiled but Lizzie sensed the tension had not left him. “More to the point,” she continued, “are you?” Mat gazed out over the water, they were hidden from view of the path on both sides of the river by the trees, the way he liked it, total privacy. He wanted to find the right words, to be completely honest, to tell Lizzie everything. He reached down for a pebble between his feet, picked it up, studied it carefully and turned it over in his fingers before answering.

“Honestly, I don't know. Things have been difficult lately...great as well, but...confusing and...I dunno...I've been feeling something lately I've never felt before, never this strong. It's like I feel lost, something's pulling me away from reality and I'm finding it difficult to concentrate, to live in the here and now...I feel like I'm longing for something. I'm happy, especially lately, but I get unreasonably angry and sad and I don't know why...It's complicated, I'd like to still feel I could make a difference. I don't really feel I've achieved much, wasted years waiting...I'm angry with myself because I've wasted my life. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut, but being with you guys has shown me something else, something better. The Life of Byron is getting me through lately. I feel like I can be something else, someone better. But I'm not anyone special I'm just an ordinary guy. I feel torn between two worlds, I want Life of Byron to go on indefinitely, so I can live this life and be in this world, but at the same time I want it to be over so I can concentrate on my 'real life'. I'm torn and I don't know what to do about it, don't know what I should be concentrating on. ”

Lizzie nodded slowly, “like you're homesick but you're already home?” Mat turned to face her fully, “...yeah, it's like being homesick. There's an emptiness I'm feeling lately but I don't know what's missing.”  
“I've been feeling different too...lost...ever since we started the Life of Byron, I didn't think anything of it at first. Mike said we should both go in for it because we were bound to get the main parts, being an actual couple...”

Mat turned to face the river again, hiding his frown. “To be honest, Mat, it changed for me when you auditioned for Thomas. I thought Mike was the only one going up for it, I thought it was already decided and I'd prepared myself for me and Mike to be Elizabeth and Thomas...Don't get me wrong, it's not because I thought we were the only ones capable of the roles, I just...” She paused for a deep breath, “I didn't consider anybody else at the time, I was selfish and putting my relationship before the group.”

She trailed off as Mat shook his head in response, “no, that's what anyone would have thought. I get it, it was logical to assume it would be you and Mike...maybe it should have been...to keep it authentic.” Mat gazed fixedly at the trees on the opposite bank, trying in vain to keep all emotion from his face and voice.

It was Lizzie's turn to face Mat in earnest, “no, that's what I'm trying to say, when Mike was auditioning he was going through the motions, he didn't really want it, didn't feel it...but as soon as you began I heard Thomas' voice coming through. You spoke with such an honest anguish – you totally nailed Thomas. I knew in that moment it would be you, it had to be, it could only be you after that performance. It made me think, re-consider everything, I knew you were a good actor, I've seen you perform so many times, so many different roles and I've been enthralled every time. You've always brought your characters to life in a way only you could, you brought magic to the role, but it's more than that now. You spoke and I heard Thomas, they were his words but they could only be spoken through you, I read them on paper, they were only words, but you brought them - and Thomas - to life. You talked of your heartache and I saw every injustice that had been done to Thomas, I saw him – you – there in that walled garden. Thomas' life was laid out before us, I think we all saw the Regency poet in the room. Nobody else could play Thomas the way you do, with such authenticity, you are Thomas, Mat. I saw everything play out while you spoke, me and you performing together felt so right – much more than me and Mike ever did.”

Mat didn't want to interrupt her but was astounded to discover she had felt the way watching him audition as he had felt about her. He was astonished by her speech, amazed she thought so highly of him, they had never been that close before Life of Byron, but now it was clear things had changed for them both and they shared a connection because of this show.

“...Ok...” he started, “this is going to sound like I'm making this up on the spot, because of what you said, but I swear to you, I only auditioned for Thomas because you read for Elizabeth...You brought her to life for me, what you said about me being Thomas and bringing magic to the character...I felt that about you, when you spoke I finally understood Life of Byron. When we were planning and writing the show I couldn't get into it, I didn't see the appeal and didn't think a story about Byron would work as a show. When you spoke I saw that it wasn't about Byron, it was the story of Thomas and it worked because of Elizabeth. She's the catalyst for his life, she takes him from being a melodramatic failing poet - to a man with a purpose, she's the driving force and the light in his life. I get that. Byron wants to marry her because he can see her potential, knows she's one in a million, but Thomas' feelings are pure love, there's more to it with him. Byron knows he can have Elizabeth and takes her for granted, but Thomas knows he can't be with her - despite this, he can't stop himself from falling in love with her. She's perfect..they're perfect for each other. She's his muse...”

He stopped himself before he said something he knew he'd regret, he shot a quick look over at Kitty who had decided the water was too cold and was exploring the drier rocky area instead, ensured of her safety he collected his thoughts and spoke again, not wanting this moment to slip away.

“Honestly, I only went to the auditions to be part of the group, I had planned to sit at the back, to not get involved. I was thinking about what I was going to have for dinner while everyone else auditioned - until you became Elizabeth. You brought the role, the whole show, to life for me. I suddenly had a clear image of you as Elizabeth in that garden, it brought on another image, equally as vivid - me as Thomas. I knew I could be Thomas, because I knew you were Elizabeth. That was the only reason I auditioned, that moment watching you.”

Lizzie thought for a moment, pondering Mat's speech, “so that's why you had the script on you while you auditioned and looked like you'd never seen it before...you hadn't?” Mat laughed, “yeah, I was trying to be subtle about it but that's why I messed up on so many lines, I only had time to skim it. I looked like I hadn't learned the lines because I genuinely hadn't.” 

Lizzie grinned at him, “that proves my point! You were destined to be Thomas, you only had a few minutes to look at the script, fucked it up – understandably, and you were still the best, you were perfect. You were meant to be Thomas.” Mat reluctantly returned her smile, “that's what I'm worried about now, I feel like Thomas is taking over me.” He distractedly ran his hand through his hair, wanting to choose his words carefully so Lizzie wouldn't think any less of him He was struggling to hold back the flood of words that were fighting to be heard after the past few weeks of being left unspoken. This was the perfect opportunity and he knew he wasn't strong enough to keep this bottled up any longer, but a part of him was still terrified of breaking down in front of Lizzie – again - admitting his issues and baring his soul.

“I know how stupid this is going to sound, but if anyone would understand, it's you.” Mat paused again to collect his thoughts into an order he could make sense of. Lizzie tried not to look too expectant, to give him time to say what he needed to and how he needed to, without rushing or pressuring him. She felt they had grown close enough now, Mat could confide in her everything that was going on with him, she also had a strong suspicion she shared his issues. She wanted to keep the conversation going and decided to be the first to admit something she'd rather not have to. “You feel as though when you look into a mirror, it's not you looking back now.”

Mat was surprised at Lizzie's input, but grateful she had started the conversation and vocalised something he had only thought before now, he nodded encouragingly. “Yes! It's like...like...I'm expecting to see Thomas in my own reflection. Something in my brain tells me, before I look in the mirror, it's not my face I'll see any more. It doesn't feel as scary as it sounds, when it happens, it's reassuring, Thomas is a part of me and I don't know if I can separate the two of us now.”

He began in barely more than a whisper but took heart at Lizzie's silently encouraging smile, his voice became stronger as he continued, settling into the words, confident in their truth now they were being spoken aloud. “I feel I'm using more and more of his words in every day conversations, falling naturally into Regency speech patterns and phrasing. I see the world around me as he would, I'm looking at technology and modern inventions and it feels alien all of a sudden, unfamiliar and wrong. I've always loved the country, the pull of fresh air and freedom, but it's so strong now, I feel like I want to escape from everything that is my life – give it all up. I'd love to go live in a manor house on a country estate, get decked out in the finery of the 1800's gentleman, to live that life...if I could go back in time...”

He trailed off, worried now that he'd said too much, said the wrong thing, he'd made things awkward between himself and Lizzie, the opposite of his intentions. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I know how stupid this must sound....Jim was right about me needing a break. I'm getting too close to the role, getting dragged into character and I can't snap out of it...I need to learn how to keep it separate and professional.”

Lizzie felt for him, she understood exactly what he meant, she'd felt it all herself, wanting to become Elizabeth, feeling as though she was standing on the edge of a cliff, being pulled ever closer to the edge by this role. Every time they rehearsed she felt more and more like her namesake, ever increasingly like the Georgian lady she now craved to be. Mat was forced to incline his head towards her as she replied quietly, “I know, I feel that too....This has opened a window to a world I've never thought about before. They say you don't realise you've been sitting in the dark until someone turns on the light. Suddenly this feels right, the more we rehearse, the more drawn in I become, the stronger the feeling of being Elizabeth gets. The longing of living in that world and having that life. I look at you now and I see Thomas, sometimes he's all I see, sometimes all I feel is Elizabeth. It feels like it's changing things between us, for Lizzie and Mat.”

Mat nodded along in agreement, sometimes gazing intently at Lizzie while she spoke, but alternately looking out across the river, for fear of appearing too intense. He worried the secret he kept from her, from everyone, would be written across his face now more than ever.


	10. Chapter 10 -  “You need to make her believe in magic, show her the stars.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Within Temptation – The Last Dance
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YenwcI-Z1EU&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=10

Mat and Lizzie sat in silence on the riverbank, reflecting on what had been said, that they were able to finally share with one another. Kitty was happy to explore the rocks around them, occasionally venturing to the line of trees behind them or to the water's edge, the humans were content listening to the sound of the river flowing in front of them. Lizzie decided to steer the conversation away from difficult topics and instead talk about the show.

“I know it's silly but I find myself getting frustrated with Elizabeth, I keep wishing she would be braver, stand up for what she believes in. Leave Byron. Go to Thomas instead. She's caught in an impossible situation with the restrictions of her status, her gender, but still...She's doing herself an injustice.”  
Mat found himself jumping to Elizabeth's defence, eager to highlight her many positive qualities.  
“Yes she is, but she is also an amazing woman, do you not think? She's everything you could want a woman to be. She's kind isn't she? She has wonderful ambitions and dreams.”  
“They're mad.”  
“They're not, I deal with madness, they are passions - some of them yes, are unusual but you need to confront her less. Listen to her.”  
“I knew you'd be good at this, let me get a pen...say more clever things...”  
Lizzie smiled at Mat, she knew he would sympathise with Elizabeth's struggle and it was good to hear him speak so highly of her. She shook her head sadly, “the rules of her time - her society - mean she has to marry a man she doesn't love. She can never be with the man she does. Anyway...you – Thomas - can ease her suffering, to allow her to forget her troubles for a while in the walled garden.”  
“I'd like that.” Mat smiled, truly wanting nothing more than to be able to support Elizabeth and Lizzie. The modern object of his affection returned his smile, mischief dancing in her eyes.  
“Let her know you could kiss every part of her. You need to make her believe in magic, show her the stars, when you are in love there is beauty in an onion, is there not?”  
“Stars...kissing...onion...it's like having tea with Byron...I'll give some of that an attempt. I'm determined to make this work.. .credit to you if I pull it off.”

Lizzie laughed, “you and me, we've already pulled it off, no question of that. I'd like to work on a sequel.” She lifted her arm, fingers outstretched as she drew her hand from left to right as if drawing attention to an invisible cinema advert blazoned above it's doors. “told from Elizabeth's perspective, after Thomas dies,” she lowered her arm and looked seriously at Mat. “I like to think she'd refuse to marry Byron, she'd find out about Thomas' murder and know her betrothed was the culprit. Then she'd leave him, move away and set up a new life for herself in the country. Away from London society and it's rules, she'd keep Thomas' memory alive.”

“I'm sure she will...no-one wants to be in an unhappy marriage do they?” Mat's words held more gravitas than Lizzie was expecting to hear - Mat was just as surprised at the tone of his voice. He had intended his reply to be about Elizabeth, but found himself instead thinking about Lizzie, and drawing on the parallels between the two women. He didn't want Lizzie to be in an unhappy relationship. He thought she was – part of him hoped she was unhappy with Mike and she'd admit his failings, leave Mike so she could be with him instead. Selfish, he chided himself, but he couldn't help it.

Mat and Lizzie were calm, here in this hidden oasis, only the rocks, trees and river around them to hear their worries spoken aloud, to be carried away on the current and on the breeze. This corner of tranquillity perfect after a long walk to ground themselves after a difficult couple of weeks and a particularly stressful morning. Here they were free to express their secrets, their confusion and guilt, without judgement, to the only other person who would understand.

Before the Life of Byron they were two people connected by their re-enactment group and little else, they hadn't spent much time together before now, and certainly never been alone together. Their separate lives had been pulling them in different directions, but were united now on this rock by the river. This connection they had because of a show, a bond that stretched back two hundred years to unify them once again.

They saw one another for who they were here and now, but also for who they could have been. If circumstances had been different, if chance had been divergent, the paths of their lives walked by other people now. They could have been completely different people, in a completely different time, they could have been sitting on this same rock next to this same river but as Thomas and Elizabeth.

This performance threw them together, both crashing into Thomas and Elizabeth's world, where they felt strangely at home, as if they had been their characters in a previous life, the echoes of time reverberating throughout the ages.

“I'm really glad I shared this with you,” Mat finally broke the silence, “Me too,” Lizzie agreed before Mat continued. “I mean everything, I'm really glad I'm sharing Life of Byron with you, that it's me and you as Thomas and Elizabeth. I'm glad it was you I was with when I broke down this morning, that it was you who texted me afterwards and agreed to spend the afternoon with me. I'm glad it's just me and you, here and now, in this place that means a lot to me...you mean a lot to me, Lizzie.”

“Mat...I...”

“Sorry,” he interjected quickly, “I didn't mean to make it weird. I just...I meant it as in...we barely spoke before this, but now I count you as a friend. You've been a great support to me, today especially, when I needed someone, you were there for me, and you're here with me now. Sharing this moment, I'm happy this has brought us together and it's you I'm sharing this with.”

Lizzie relaxed at his explanation, not knowing how to respond to his earlier speech, tense because she felt the same but couldn't express her feelings. She kept her gaze on him after he finished speaking, she didn't have any words left to respond, he'd spoken them all for her, said what she couldn't. Instead, she leaned to the side, draped one arm across his shoulders and rested her head on his shoulder.

That was all they needed from each other, an unspoken agreement after they had both said so much and been so honest with each other today. No more words were needed as they sat in silence once again, listening to the river flowing over the rocks, the breeze in the trees and Kit's occasional splashing. They couldn't improve on that, so they didn't try, in the silence of understanding, held in the moment.

Anyone stumbling onto that riverbank scene would say with absolute certainty that the two people sitting there were lovers, enjoying the beautiful surroundings wrapped up in each other and the moment. Onlookers wouldn't see the images dancing in the eyes of the couple, the impossible lovers, sitting together but separated by the physical space of a Georgian grand hall, a dance floor. The rules of society, the promise of a betrothal to someone else, a different time.

The usual scene played out in their heads, they both stood with their backs against opposite walls, transfixed by one another. Silently communicating their longing, their intense gazes repeatedly broken by the couples weaving past, twirling in time to the lively music. The hall was full of light, laughter and the heady promise of love hanging in the air. The other guests at Lord Byron's ball blissfully unaware of the anguish felt by the two people on the fringes of their vision as they spun around in the arms of their partners. The dancers caught up in the atmosphere, the dance, the joy of the moment and the hope for the future.

The concentration of remembering where to put feet, hands, how to hold one's self and move in time to the music, while holding a conversation - all combined to ensure the two people at the edges of the dance floor were ignored. The couples focused, their futures depending on their competence that night. If they said the right words, performed the right actions, if both parties were in agreement, there could be betrothals. The expectant air of promises flickering in the ballroom like the candles that lined the walls, this hall a beacon in the night for all the local gentry, for promises as yet unmade, lives as yet unlived, the unlimited possibilities hanging in the evening air.

These two restless souls caught up in the scene but also vastly different to the rest of the crowd, fighting the current, swimming against the tide.

Thomas and Elizabeth the ill-fated, never-to-be-lovers, holding each other's gaze across a crowded room as a shipwrecked sailor holds onto a rock. They were forced to watch love blossom in front of them, their friends and peers in their simple lives of laughter, love, and a destiny they were free to choose. While Thomas and Elizabeth were merely feet apart, a hall's width, it could have been miles between them, oceans, two centuries separating them. If they could only push through the waltzing couples, take each other's hands and disappear on the dance floor, lost to each other, carried away by the music into the crowd. To be together forever, or at least until the end of the song.

They both knew it could never be, as the drowning sailor is forced to watch the light glowing in a cottage on the shore just lengths away, but unable to let go of the rock and swim aground. A universe of impossible space in between. As their world slips away, pulled under the current, drowning, dying just metres away from their saviour. A life they could have lived, a future that could have held years of happy memories, promises fulfilled, children cultivated, a million kisses and every night spent together. All of that washed away by the tide, pulling the sailor into the eternal night, keeping Thomas and Elizabeth separated.


	11. Chapter 11 - “Should they find you they'll keep you from rest.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Dog Ears - Mrs Winchester
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yHDS0nRblc&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=11

A month later Mat was perched on a high rock, overlooking a valley. The Horrible Historians were on a camping trip as a break after their intense rehearsal schedule, before the final show. Everybody needed some down time after working hard to pull the show together and practising more than they'd ever done previously, this was a welcome holiday before the pressure of performing to an audience. 

Mat left the campsite and went for a walk alone in the woods, he followed the path out of the trees that sloped upwards through a moor of bracken. He now found himself on an outcrop overlooking the trees he'd walked amongst, the campsite beyond – hidden behind the pine forest. He sat looking out over the moor, feeling the breeze tug his clothes and watch it wave through the heather. He swung his legs back and forth, the feeling of nothing under his feet momentarily made him feel as though he was falling and he drew his legs back to push his heels into the rock to ground himself. It was beautiful here, this peace and tranquillity of the moors and the forest around the campsite. 

His mind drifted, while looking down at the view, back to that day a few weeks ago when he was sitting by the river with Lizzie. He remembered the feeling of freedom as he talked to her, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest, to finally vocalise his worries and share in hers. He was extremely heartened to know she felt the same and also experienced that strange disembodiment of empathy towards the fictional characters they were portraying.

Here in this unspoilt countryside, he couldn't help thinking it would have been very similar in Thomas' time - no buildings, no roads, nothing unnatural to spoil the landscape. He could see himself strolling across the moors as Thomas, with Elizabeth on his arm. 

They would cherish the stolen hours spent hiding away together, in this place without judgement, suspended in time. The rules of society may change – technology, fashions, building styles in the cities. But out here the grass grew as it always had, wild and free, the trees bent only to the will of the wind. The rock formations unmoving as they had been throughout time, eroded very gradually over thousands of years but standing firm against the only enemy of these hills - the weather.

The rule of man applied only to the towns and cities, in this oasis, nature ruled and she required balance and harmony in her domain, Thomas and Elizabeth's love would thrive here.  
When he cast his eyes to the horizon he would swear he saw two figures in the corner of his vision, a couple arm in arm, meandering along the path of least resistance among the bracken. The man was dressed in full Georgian finery, no expense spared on the silks for his waistcoat, his jacket. His delicate britches in stark contrast to the rough grassland he was walking through, the lady was equally, if not moreso, fine in her long embroidered dress that swept across the grass. The hemline soaked from the dew but she didn't seem to mind as she talked and laughed with her partner, the two leaning in close together, oblivious to the world around them, lost in each other.

Mat sighed, it was becoming increasingly difficult to leave Thomas behind, to break character and go back to being Mat again after rehearsals. He saw Thomas and Elizabeth everywhere, they were ghosts that haunted his dreams and every waking moment now. He felt Thomas' presence now, Thomas' thoughts collected in Mat's brain, Thomas' words formed themselves in Mat's mouth. He was biting his tongue to avoid voicing regency phrases, nobody says “betwixt” or “my lady” these days.

After a while the sadness crept up on him again, the frustration of being Mat in the present day, he sighed and stood, taking a last look at the view as he wiped the moss stains from his hands on the back of his jeans. He felt strange clambering down the rocks and striding across the moors in his hoody, jeans and Converse, wrong somehow.

When he wandered back into the campsite, a cheer erupted from the group of Horrible Historians who were seated in a circle of folding chairs, in the centre of a larger circle of tents. “He's back!” Ben called, standing up and throwing out his arms to the sides in a welcome. “Come on man, we're going to get the fire and beers started, get your guitar out.”

Mat grinned, allowing Ben to pull him into a hug and accepting back slaps from others as he squeezed into the circle and took his place in the empty chair in front of his tent. Martha handed him a beer as Jim started to set the fire and Larry fetched his guitar from the tent they were sharing. Mat took a swig of beer and allowed the conversation to wash over him as the sun dropped gradually behind the trees at the edge of the field. 

Dusk was falling around them as the friends talked and drank, some time later Lizzie and Mike returned from their walk and the group was complete. Lizzie laughed at something Mike said and Mat felt a stab in in his chest, he stared intently into the fire, the dancing flames a welcome distraction.

“Go on Mat, play a song,” Larry encouraged, the others cheered as Mat gave in and picked up his guitar, he momentarily met Lizzie's gaze across the fire, played a chord and broke eye contact with her to collect his thoughts before he began playing.

>   
>  “Lying there on the midnight sand.”  
> 

He tried to concentrate on the other Horrible Historians and ignore Lizzie.

>   
>  “He said he'd give her the sky if she held his hand.”  
> 

Martha, Ben, Jim, Larry and Simon were all rapt.

>   
>  “She counted every star in the sky and said...”  
> 

Mat couldn't help his attention being drawn away from the others and back to Lizzie, wrapped in Mike's arms.

>   
>  “I don't want that.”  
> 

He looked Lizzie straight in the eyes and sang with feeling as she held his gaze.

>   
>  “I want you instead.”  
> 

The firelight reflected in her eyes, burning with intensity until she dropped her gaze to the flames in between them, he silently willed her to meet his eyes again as the song ended, but she refused. Lizzie and Mike sat motionless as the others applauded and called out requests, Mat played the songs they wrote and performed as Horrible Historians. Songs they all knew so well and had sung for years, songs of prominent historical figures - kings and queens, the heroes and the villains throughout history.

These were the old favourites, they sang along as one, familiar with all the verses regardless of who took the lead during the shows. They harmonised perfectly, some people jumping up to dance around the fire for the more upbeat songs, remembering choreography routines and getting lost in the music – waving imaginary guns or arms flailing in air guitar moves.

The final voices contributing to “we're history...and we made it hor-ri-ble” faded away, everyone tired and nostalgic, Mat concentrated mainly on playing and left most of the singing to the others. He looked up at Lizzie, along with Mike, they were the only three people not singing along to the finale song. Everyone fell silent and reflected on the solemness of that song, it marked the end of an era for the group.

He had intended to look into the crackling fire to finish the song, but his eyes disobeyed and strayed across to Lizzie again. Everyone else hugged each other, there was much back slapping and gasping for breath from the more enthusiastic performers. Everyone eventually sat down, more cans and snacks were handed around the circle, Lizzie appeared to be transfixed on the fire as she mumbled “play Mrs Winchester next, that's my favourite of yours.”

Her words were barely audible over the buzz of conversation that had started up, but none the less Mat heard her and his fingers obeyed willingly, instantly finding the right guitar strings from which to draw the desired sound. Most of the group hadn't realised Mat was playing again until he started singing, those first few notes he shared with Lizzie as the world fell away around them.

>   
>  “Keep building your house Mrs Winchester,  
>  a place for my brothers to rest.”  
> 

Lizzie finally flicked her gaze up to him and smiled.

>   
>  “For they fell one and all with the mark of your name,  
>  on the bullets that tore through their flesh.”  
> 

The rest of the group had begun to notice Mat singing again and they lapsed into a respectful silence to listen. This wasn't a Horrible Historian song to be sung along to in good humour, this was one Mat wrote himself and his compositions were more serious. They dealt with love and pain in a way the Horrible Historian songs couldn't – the group songs were to entertain and educate in a fun way, and were aimed at a family audience.

Mat had performed his songs for the group before, but here in this field at sundown, around a campfire after the high energy renditions of the Horrible Historian's back catalogue, it felt even more poignant.

>   
>  “Oh and sleep in a new room each evening,  
>  You were wise not to stay in the best.”  
> 

Mat felt an intense burning sensation and tore his gaze from Lizzie, upwards to meet Mike's thunderous glare, staring him down. A silent warning to keep his distance from Lizzie, Mat carried on regardless, albeit with fewer glances in Lizzie's direction, determined not to be threatened by Mike.

>   
>  “For my bothers they walk through the hallways each evening,  
>  should they find you they'll keep you from rest.”  
> 

An intense hush had fallen on the group, it would have been peaceful had it not been for Mike's murderous glare stabbing into him.

>   
>  “Does the sound of the work on the east wing,  
>  Help distract you from your guilty fear?”  
> 

Mat felt Lizzie's attention slide away from him and back to the fire at that line, she shifted uneasily.

>   
>  “As it stops in the evening, do you find it's replaced,  
>  By the sound of the gunshots that ring in our ears?”  
> 

Everyone was still and silent, listening intently, lost in the melody and the words.

>   
>  “Ring in our ears.”  
> 

Mat didn't dare look up at Lizzie as the final chords faded away, his attention distracted by the applause of the group. 


	12. Chapter 12 - “A tale to tell, of who was here before and how they fell.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Special Benny – Inspector Sands
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yo5u0ixEBUs&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=12

“Do another one of yours, Mat,” Martha called encouragingly. Mat didn't pause to consider his options, sliding straight into the next song.

>   
> 
> 
> Oh,  
>  I will somehow hide in you

  


This was a song he'd written and usually only performed with his band, striking up the tune he simplified for his single guitar, he hadn't played this in a while but it felt good to re-visit the older songs again.

> I've got these bones and eyes made for seeing,  
>  You've got all of these things and more.  
>  Something else I don't know which I need,  
>  I will reach down your throat trying to find It.

This one felt strange without his band playing along with him, this song was different to his usual style, it's melody designed to sound more electronic and with a saxophone making it more upbeat than the lyrics suggested.

> Oh your stomach turns at the thought of,  
>  No one taking time up in your head.  
>  Somehow chewing inside of your cheeks,  
>  You're afraid of the lengths I will go to.

This one was mainly instrumental – which gave him more of a chance to collect his thoughts and concentrate on the music, rather than being distracted by Lizzie.

> You pull words from my mouth in such order,  
>  I could not consciously have composed.  
>  My intentions escape my own notice,  
>  Now we're stuck with these cold consequences.

Mat realised how much the previous verse described his life currently but tried not to dwell on it as he continued.

> Hear the notes awaiting their orders,  
>  Patiently they prepare for attack.  
>  When they burrow under your ribcage,  
>  Nest themselves in your chest where it's warmest .

He finished playing with his eyes closed and effortlessly struck up the next song, back to the ones he could claim full credit for.

> “Wind. She howls and grips my bones to shaking,  
>  Cold. She holds my legs to cease the moving.  
>  Lying by the road I chose to take  
>  I turn my head to see the choice I made.”

He noticed from the corner of his eye Lizzie's attention drawn from the fire, she focused on him fully.

> “Save the show again for me I've lost the touch,  
>  And I'm still stunned that you'd believed in me so much.”  
>  Just tell me when we're there I'll close my eyes,  
>  And come what may, the place it won't surprise me.”

Mat felt Lizzie sitting up straighter, listening intently to the lyrics, as he hoped she would – he wrote them for her.

> “You'll see  
>  You'll see.”

The rest of the group seemed to be subconsciously leaning forwards, soaking up this new song, he'd never played it for anyone else before tonight. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to test it out on an audience.

> Walls they call to me, a tale to tell,  
>  of who was here before and how they fell.”

Mat looked Lizzie straight in the eyes as he sang those lines, hoping she would get the reference to Thomas.

> “Is there a world without the love of you?”  
>  Don't let me be alone I beg of you.  
>  I sing please.  
>  I sing please.”
> 
>   
> 

  
  
  
  
  


He barely took a moment to appreciate the applause before he launched straight into another song.

> “Onwards onwards, never stopping,  
>  The years roll by like the buildings and trees.  
>  When one day you sit up and you look,  
>  Question all of the turnings you took.  
>  Well then you realise you're not in control,  
>  The feelings well up to plunge off the road.”

Mat had found his flow, using these words he'd written, singing them aloud for his friends gave him the sense of peace his troubled mind needed right now.

> And I can't blame you for my lack of strength,  
>  But I can't see how we can make amends,  
>  And what the hell have I done?  
>  And what the hell haven't I done?”

He had one final song of his he wanted to share, the applause was irrelevant, this was for validation of his feelings, the sense of release gained from saying these things out loud. His insecurities and obsession with his role as Thomas veiled in his songs.

> “Your face seems such a perfect thing,  
>  Oh faith seems such a perfect thing.  
>  Until all those doubts come creeping in,  
>  How all those doubts come creeping in.”

He was baring his soul, singing the lyrics as he couldn't speak the words to express his feelings. He couldn't talk openly and honestly about his recent battles with his mental health, even with his closest friends. But he could sing.

> “Like rain,  
>  The water rises up the walls,  
>  The crumbling plaster starts to fall.  
>  The timber of the window frame,  
>  Gives in and soaks up all that rain.”

He saw Thomas' life flash before his eyes as always, the slide-show of memories from a life he hadn't led, like a torrent of rain battering against a window. He saw his land, fields stretching out before him between the ears of his horse, he saw a ballroom, the walled garden.

> “And suddenly you're standing there,  
>  With nothing around you.”  
>  Alone, exposed, afraid of life.”

Something caught his attention, through the dancing flames of the fire, there was a figure standing behind the group, just at the edges of the night where the fire couldn't illuminate. A place where the light met the darkness, where memories met fantasy, real met the imagined, the border of the present and the past. This was a person so familiar, Mat recognised him instantly, through the haze of the smoke, the figure smiled at him like an old friend, a very old friend. 

Mat blinked rapidly to dispel the vision and was brought back into the moment as the group applauded enthusiastically. “Mathew Baynton everybody,” Jim called over a fresh round of cheers, “what a star!”

Mat couldn't focus on the Horrible Historians around him, his gaze dragged back to the figure at the other side of the fire, he noticed how the crisp white shirt of the man stood out against the gathering darkness of the evening. It seemed to shine almost, the smoke from the fire appeared to give the man a glowing outline that wavered and flickered like a flame. Mat's gaze was drawn to the left side of the patterned waistcoat and stopped abruptly – he knew what he would see there, over the abdomen, but it was no less of a shock.

The fine fabric was stained crimson, blood oozing from a bullet sized hole, smearing a path downwards. Mat tore his eyes away from the wound that still looked as though it was dripping, as though it was fresh. His eyes met those of the man across the fire, Mat felt a strange jolt as the man smiled apologetically, noticing Mat looking at his wound. He seemed to shrug as if to say all was well, what was done was done. Death had numbed the pain, there was no longer a need for resentment or regret. Mat was staring into eyes that were his own, staring back, he didn't know if he felt more like Mat or more like Thomas in that moment, didn't know who he would rather be. The two sides of himself sitting opposite a campfire, not fighting for control, just being. Separate but joined.

The fire crackled as fresh logs were engulfed in the flames and burned along with the others, putting up a valiant but futile fight. Fire being one of the few unstoppable forces, the logs always succumbed eventually, glowing embers broke free and drifted up towards the stars.

The image of Thomas was staring wistfully into the fire, it was like looking in a mirror for Mat, they could have been brothers, separated by two hundred years. Flames danced in Thomas' eyes, reflected light and hinted at a liveliness in him that the crimson hole in his waistcoat suggested otherwise. The Regency gentleman in all his finery, elegant breeches crumpled as he crouched by the fire, drawing closer behind the group. The baggy shirtsleeves under his waistcoat suggested he was not dressed in his best, as if he was caught unaware when he died. When he was killed. 

Mat took in all of the details of Thomas he already knew so well, he wanted to talk to the apparition but he knew no words were needed. There was an unspoken bond between the men either side of the fire, as if they knew instinctively what the other was thinking, joined as they were by their shared experiences. Mat was vaguely aware of the Horrible Historians around him, their talk faded into the background, he kept out of the conversations. 

Thomas was a ghost in time, his life having played out two hundred years ago, the present was the domain of the man who would play the part of Thomas, in the story focused on someone else. Someone who had weathered the test of time more successfully and gone down in history as the famous poet Thomas had longed to be known as. 

Thomas and Mat had led very different lives in their respective time periods, very different and yet there were many things that linked them. They were united now, a common thread that had woven through time to bring them both here around this campfire, at this moment. Maybe this meant Mat was the reincarnation of Thomas, it was the story resetting, playing out again across time, maybe this time it would be different. Mat would change Thomas' story, in the show when Thomas would be shot, Mat would only be pretending, Thomas seemed to smile knowingly as Mat thought this.

Suddenly Mat felt a sharp ripping pain in the left side of his abdomen, his hand instinctively covered the area, he glanced down expecting to see blood, a bullet wound, but there was nothing. He looked up, Thomas was gone. The ghost of time had returned to his own period, or back inside Mat's head.


	13. Chapter 13 - “I don't want that, I want you instead.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Dog Ears – Onwards, Onwards
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgnX0NAcL20&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=13

This was it. The day had finally arrived. Mat had unpacked his bag and spread out his clothes and props for today on the bed in Ben's spare room. He had been staying with his fellow Horrible Historian during the final couple of weeks of rehearsals. Ben lived closer to West Horsely Place – where the show would be performed – making the commute easier for the weekend they would be performing.

Mat was missing Kitty but he was reassured she was being well looked after by Jamie who was sending Mat regular updates of how she was settling in with Jamie's own dogs and the long walks they'd been on. Jamie's back lane led onto rapeseed fields and there were many public footpaths marked with wear along the outskirts of the fields. Trails that wound through woodland and occasionally opened out onto narrow country lanes, barely wide enough for a vehicle, which was lucky as barely any cars broke the peace. Kitty would love the freedom of running through the fields, exploring the old quarry that was now carpeted with grass and overgrown with gorse bushes, intersected with footpaths. Mat was happy when he knew Kit was and so could dedicate his time to rehearsing for Life of Byron.

He had been thoroughly enjoying the past two weeks, staying with Ben, discussing the successes of their previous shows into the early hours and predicting this upcoming production would be their best yet. Mat spent the evenings planning and running through lines with Ben, he would head up to bed with his scripted speeches whirring through his mind. He would lie awake staring at the ceiling with excitement and apprehension intertwining with the alcohol in his brain. A heady mix. He dreaded things going wrong, dreamt of forgetting his lines – Mike's smug face. Lizzie's disappointment, or worse – derision. He also dreamt of the perfect scenario – delivering his lines flawlessly, a show-stopping performance that would be forever imprinted in the memories of cast and audience alike.

He imagined the large crowd of spectators hanging on to his every word, staying after the show to ask for his autograph. He saw Lizzie's smile through the sea of faces in the crowd and he knew he would trade the adoration of the public for her approval. Without a doubt.

Mat envisioned Lizzie approaching him when the show finished, standing by his side and taking his hand for the group bow to the audience. He could see Mike standing alone, defeat etched on his face as Lizzie chose Mat over him. The crowd cheered and applauded wildly as Lizzie uttered the words in his ear he'd been longing to hear, “I've left Mike...I don't want that, I want you instead.”

It was easy for him to rehearse lines, practice his movements and gestures, he felt so much like Thomas these days, it was effortless to slip into character. Thomas was more than a fictional character written into a semi-biographical story of Lord Byron. Thomas now felt like an old friend, a brother, the story of Mat himself that he'd forgotten. As if Thomas was a relic hidden away in a box under the floorboards like the finest Araby jewel. Mat, in opening the box, had dusted off the treasure he'd never seen before but somehow he'd always known of. The story of Thomas' life strangely so familiar, it was the story of his own life. 

The image of Thomas across the fire when the Horrible Historians were camping still flashed through Mat's brain several times a day, there was something about the magic of that night, the months leading up to it, starting with being cast as Thomas in the show. All of the time he spent learning his story, the hours of rehearsals that went into the lines Thomas would speak. Mat fell in love with Elizabeth as Thomas did, the dislike he felt for Mike was a constant hum ringing in his ears, as Thomas' hatred for Byron would have been. This was more than professional rivalry between two actors competing for the starring role, the casting meeting playing out the way it did felt like fate. Mat hadn't planned to audition until five minutes beforehand, until he saw Lizzie audition and he knew he didn't have a choice but to try, for her. How convenient Mike would be cast as Byron – the rival in every way to Mat's Thomas, as Mat was falling for Mike's real life girlfriend, Lizzie. It would make a dramatic love poem for Thomas to have penned. The parallels between Mat and Thomas' world made it increasingly difficult for Mat to switch off from Thomas, to step out of that role and become Mat once again.

He would still swear he saw Thomas crouching by the fire that night, beyond the smoke and flames distorting and illuminating their circle. The image of Thomas was so clear, so solid and familiar. Mat worried he had brought Thomas to life too strongly – as if the rehearsals were a ritual that had created a magic, conjured him into being. It was a powerful spell, one he worried could not now be broken, fearing his life would be forever entwined with that of the Regency poet.

The usual insecurities and doubts Mat felt before a show were diminished this time, maybe it was knowing he'd have a starring role in this production, alongside Lizzie. Maybe it was all of the extra time rehearsing and character development he had undergone. Maybe it was the knowing smile the spectre of Thomas had given him that night. Mat felt as though he should be worried he was seeing Ghosts. Maybe he should have felt fear in that moment, or called to the other Horrible Historians to turn and see Thomas behind their circle, just out of reach. Instead, the image of Thomas calmed him, it was reassuring to have seen Thomas that night. As though he had stepped through the two hundred years that separated them to weigh up the man who was to portray him, and found Mat to be capable of such a task. 

Mat had kept the image of Thomas' approving smile along with Lizzie's in the forefront of his mind as he threw his whole being into rehearsals. He wanted this to be perfect, he needed this to be perfect. For Lizzie. For Thomas.

He was ready for this now, confident that he would give the greatest performance he could ever be capable of. This wasn't just another show, the words jumped from the script this time, came alive in his mind, they came from a place within him.

The fateful day had finally dawned, bringing with it a sense of apprehension to Mat along with steel grey skies. He felt a deep sadness on dressing as Thomas, pulling on the Regency shirt always gave him a sense of homecoming, a relaxed joy of familiarity. A feeling similar to coming home after a long journey, stepping through the front door to the recognizable smell of home he didn't notice until he left and returned. A smell that was impossible to explain but was quintessentially him and his home. Today, however, that familiar feeling had soured, watching himself button up the waistcoat in the mirror he felt he was in mourning. After all of the rehearsals, all of the preparation, he knew what would happen at the end of the show. 

Thomas was to die today. Expected but unavoidable. However perfectly he performed his part and delivered his lines – Thomas was still to die. There was nothing that could prevent the inevitable. Byron riding up to him, shouting at Thomas accusingly, raving like a madman. The pistols. This was how it had to be.

Mat's heart always felt the sudden weight of knowing dread when he saw the wooden box, the moment it was produced Mat knew for certain what Thomas could only guess. The contents of the box, he never really got used to the sound of the pistol firing during rehearsal. The single shot seemed to reverberate around his head, his whole body, as though the field on which they rehearsed was an echo chamber. They used blanks that still sounded deadly, he didn't need to act, every time the pistol was in Byron's hand he felt his world slowing to a shuddering halt, focusing in to this moment, condensing to this field. He knew today would be the day he – Thomas – died. It never became any easier, every time he felt the bullet ripping into his stomach as he heard the shot firing, he could never convince himself there was no bullet. It was only the sound of a blank, only the sound. Every rehearsal using the gun always brought with it the sense of fear and foreboding, riding in on the coattails of the contentment playing Thomas usually brought him. 

He stared at his reflection in the mirror now – half dressed as Thomas – his hand instinctively reached for the bloodstain on his waistcoat. He wasn't ready to lose Thomas today, he wasn't ready to say goodbye to the role that had brought so much understanding to his own life. The time he'd spent reflecting, he'd never been so deep into a role before this, Thomas was different, Thomas was the character he was destined to portray.

He dragged his gaze away from the bullet wound in his waistcoat, reminding himself yet again it was just a clever trick from Debbie, who was in charge of make-up. There wasn't really a bullet lodged in his abdomen, that wasn't real.

The sky outside hung sombrely over the scene, as it well may, it matched Mat's mood. He had overheard the others hope for a sunny day, some warmth for them as they performed. After all, nothing pulled in the punters as much as a sunny day. Maybe for another show Mat would have agreed, but not today, not this show. This was Thomas' swansong and he felt it only fitting that the sky should mourn with him, for him. 

It was easy to see the world as a beautiful place as the sun shone down and the heat warmed an excess of exposed skin. Everything looked positive in these times, life felt good, any imperfections could be squinted away into the background, become a problem for a rainy day. For when a soul is brought back down to Earth, trapped under the weight of heavy grey clouds, whereas now it's all about floating high, lifting a face upwards to the dizzying heights of the sky. Marvelling at the endless expanse of unbroken space above, the endless possibilities, all the places to go, all the things to do. When the weather is dark that's a time for reflection, to deal with with problems and the realities of life. 

Mat always enjoyed the grey days, in Autumn when the weather cooled, the blinkers of Summer were removed. There was clarity in a crisp Autumn day, it brought with it a peace and the hushed promises of the darkening nights. He always appreciated the colder days creeping in, bringing with it a calming quiet to chase out the busy, bustling sticky heat of Summer.


	14. Chapter 14 - “You, me and the Apocalypse.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Dog Ears – The Howling
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zXyqPFnxOg&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=14

Mat tore his gaze from the mirror to finish dressing as Thomas, he turned to the bed to ensure all of the pieces of his outfit were present, his pistol standing out like a beacon. Mat picked it up to feel the familiar weight, it would have been a pleasing item to carry and hold if it wasn't for the negative connotations it retained. He once again ran his fingers over the smooth polished wood and brass etched details, it was a beautiful thing, if only it didn't symbolise death. If only it wouldn't bring Thomas' death today.

Mat sighed and placed it back into it's box, he would take it to West Horsley Place where it would be kept with Mike's gun in the wooden box until they were ready to be used during the show. This was the last time he would see and hold it until then, the next time he would be terrified by it's presence. He was roused by a knock at the door and Ben's voice calling “you ready mate?” It was time. “Two minutes,” he called through the door. “No bother, I'll be loading the car,” Ben replied, his footsteps fading down the hallway. Mat turned back to the mirror for the final time, there was no acting required to bring out the dark circles around Thomas' eyes, his look of defeat and hopelessness for the finale. He stared at Thomas' reflection now, a broken man walking to the gallows.

Ben and Mat parked at West Horsley Place in an area around the back of the stable block that had been given to the Horrible Historians to use for the weekend. They both felt the thrill of show day coursing through them as they greeted their fellow performers and began to set up for the show.

Lizzie found Mat inside the stables with the horses, he was brushing his borrowed mount carefully and murmuring one of the older Horrible Historian's songs to them as he worked,  “Everyone thinks they know the story, of Dick Turpin's highway glory.” 

She cleared her throat to announce her presence, hiding her smirk at interrupting this moment of Mat bonding with his horse. The song he was softly reciting was intended to be performed with the devil-may-care attitude to match Adam Ant in the Stand and Deliver music video - the inspiration for the Dick Turpin parody.

Mat started at Lizzie's unexpected presence, turning to see her in the doorway he smiled warmly, suddenly not minding the interruption. “This is the last place I thought I'd find you,” she approached to pat the horse's neck and spoke with concern, “isn't this setting off your allergies being so close to the horses?”  
Mat finished brushing his horse's mane while nodding, “yeah but the groom said to bond with the horse as much as I can. I wanted to get in a last minute session – and it's really calming being around them, good for the nerves.”  
Lizzie did agree being in the presence of the horses was relaxing, but didn't think Mat's bloodshot eyes and skin showing signs of a growing rash was the best way to start this important day. “You're starting to look ill though dude, how about we see if they need help with the fencing? Something you won't have an allergic reaction to.”  
“That's probably a good idea,” Mat agreed as he stifled a cough, he left the comb in the tack box and they headed out, he didn't speak again until they were passing the impressive house.  
“I found some interesting things when I was doing research, did you know, the building itself is fifteenth century...1469 to be precise...but the facade is actually mid sixteenth?”   
“Yeah I mean it really is an incredible place,” Lizzie looked up at the building as they passed but their attention was quickly diverted to the crowd that had already gathered on the far side of the field. The fences were complete, their audience were waiting, the time to begin the performance was fast approaching.

A few members of the Horrible Historians approached the assembled crowd, some greeting the audience cheerfully, some scowling at and scaring the children – as if they were pantomime baddies. Ben and Larry strolled up to the fence, smiling and waving to the public. Larry held out an arm to stop Ben in his tracks and pointed to an adult in the front row, asking incredulously - loud enough for the audience to hear - “what's he come as?” The crowd laughed as they both shook different sections of fence, as if ensuring it was secure before Ben turned to Larry, “yeah that should keep them out...now who's for a game of charades?” Larry punched the air in a gesture of excitement and they turned to join the troupe in the centre of the field.

This was it, the moment had arrived, after months of rehearsing, it was finally time to perform for the public,  'bad day to be made of jelly,' Mat thought to himself as he cursed his legs for shaking. All of the Horrible Historians lined up in the centre of the makeshift arena, Mat turned and murmured to Lizzie at his side “this is it, now it's just you, me and the apocalypse.” Lizzie grinned back at him, “Then bring on the apocalypse!” 

They both turned back to the audience, grinning and bowing in acknowledgement as the crowd applauded, Jim stepped forward and waited for quiet before speaking. He looked along the stretch of the audience, took a deep breath and threw his arms out to the sides before belting out a welcome to the crowd “gather round peasants!” Larry muttered, loud enough for the audience to hear, “that's charming ain't it?” Mat knitted his brows in mock confusion, looked back and forward along the line of Horrible Historians as if seeking explanation from his colleagues. Still looking confused, he held up his index finger and stepped forward next to Jim. He leaned in as if to whisper but matched Jim's volume so the crowd could hear, “maybe less of the peasants?” Jim nodded sagely, seemed to reconsider his words and continued “gather round commoners...and listen to your mighty king!” Jim turned to Mat and asked - as if this was a private conversation - “hows that?” Mat feigned exasperation as he replied “very slightly better.” He turned to the audience and shrugged, with his arms out and palms facing upwards as if in silent apology to the public, who laughed, already enjoying the show. 

The story unfolded, Mat watching from the sidelines as Mike played the part of Byron, writing his poetry and receiving recognition for his work. Always with Elizabeth near. He carefully followed the lines spoken by his colleagues, booming out over the field thanks to the speakers and the mics they had all been fitted with. He was finely tuned to the details of this play, mouthing along with the speech of the other characters until it was time to saddle up for the next scene. 

Mat found it easy to ignore the uncomfortable itch the horse was causing as he rode, grateful for the riding lessons as he now felt at ease in the saddle, confident with moving the horse to where he needed to be. The smiling faces of the audience merged into a blur as he cantered around the outside of the field to symbolise Thomas riding across his land. 

He gathered his reins and dug in his heels. Imperatrix, always swift to respond, lengthened her stride and stretched her neck forwards, obeying the urgent command of “Onwards! Onwards!”

Mat noticed the awe-struck faces in the crowd, knowing children and adults alike were admiring him vicariously. Their upturned faces of wonder staring at him as he passed, he knew he would be experiencing the same level of wonder if he saw someone riding, especially dressed in a full historical outfit. He knew he was very lucky to be doing what he did and endeavoured to enjoy every moment of this. He was unable to stop himself from urging his horse forwards as he shouted “MAKE WAY!”

Mat looped the field, enjoying the ride, despite his discomfort with allergies and the knowledge of what was fast approaching. He guided the horse to the corner of the field that led to the stables and pulled his horse back into a walk once out of view of the audience. The groom held the horse as he dismounted and Mat called out his thanks as he hurried back to the field. He waited for his cue to rejoin the action and concealed his smile as he strode close to the audience and overheard, “gosh he is dashing isn't he? Look at that hair, it's a work of art.”

“She's betrothed Thomas, look at them.”

“Why must I always be spurned?” His response was barely a murmur, carrying the weight of his despair. James was taken aback, expecting a characteristically loud Thomas outburst, not this quiet defeat, this was worse. He felt his cousin's pain and defeat, he wanted to grasp Thomas by the shoulders in a comforting embrace but was unable to, not here.

“He stole my verse, my destiny, and now he is to steal the woman of my dreams,” Thomas' voice was icy. James tried to change the subject, worried he would seek vengeance for the poems Byron stole from him. “You think every woman is the woman of your dreams,” James sensed humour couldn't shake Thomas from his dark mood so he reverted to pleading. “Please Thomas you must forget the poems, it is unwise – nay – completely foolhardy to seek retribution for your writing. You must stay away from Elizabeth now, move on.” 

“It is no longer about the poems, I can put that to one side, I can write more, there are still words in me yet.” Thomas lifted the closed fist of his free hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. “I am feeling inspired again tonight, perhaps it is this wonderful house, the enchanting music.” 

“More likely you've discovered the most inappropriate muse,” James retorted. “Oh, dear cousin, must you harp on so?” Thomas threw back the last of his wine, “I feel an inclination to seek some fresh air...I do not require company.” 

Mat strode purposefully off to the side of the field, his scene finished for the moment, his heart sank to around the level of his knees as the show progressed, he knew what was coming. He was watching the train powering towards him through the tunnel but he couldn't move off the track. All that was left to him now was to brace for impact, think of what Thomas would do. He didn't fight his mounting fear, he couldn't. He used his knowledge of the upcoming fatal disaster for Thomas to feed his acting technique. The more scared he was, the more convincing he'd be when it was time for Thomas to die. Mat thought wryly, this was the least amount of acting he'd ever needed to employ. 

“You don't have to do this, Lord Byron, there are other ways to settle this dispute.” Thomas fought to keep his voice even, but it cracked in fear, Byron noticed and his grin widened. He thrust the open box towards Thomas, “choose your weapon.” 

When Thomas made no move to select a pistol the smile faded from Byron's face, his voice like gravel, scraping against Thomas' frayed nerves, “remember Thorne, we're doing this like gentlemen. I'm giving you every opportunity to prove yourself, but my patience is wearing thin. Choose your weapon and prepare or I'll make the choice for you, there's nothing but my honour as a gentleman, stopping me from shooting you right now. For your disrespect of your station, your unwelcome advances towards my betrothed. Prove yourself to be a man and face me in a duel, or die a coward.” 

A child gasped in disbelief and turned to his parent in outrage to ask, “is Byron going to hurt Thomas?!”  
“Perhaps, be quiet now, eat your pie, let's see what happens.”

A adult further along the front row was clearly getting into the show, calling out, “what in the name of all that is holy is he fucking doing?”  
“Sssshhh!” Came the exasperated reply from next to him,  
“You shush.” He sulked.


	15. Chapter 15 - “You silly, foolish, wonderful man.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Two Steps From Hell – Star Sky
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pICAha0nsb0&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=15

The crack of the gunshot ricocheted among the nearby trees, Byron's men fighting to keep the horses under control, they had panicked at the sudden noise, rearing up, eyes wide and nostrils flaring in surprise.

There was a heavy silence suddenly on the field, the gunshot ringing in the ears of everyone, the Horrible Historians had all frozen where they stood. Their startled gaze torn between Mike - standing dumbfounded, allowing his arm to drop, the pistol now pointing at the grass – and Mat, lying on the ground. Mat was supposed to fall to the grass at the gunshot, it was supposed to look as though he'd been shot, but the gunshot had been much too loud, Mat falling had been much too real. His cries of pain reaching a level of panicked desperation that would be difficult to act to that extent, he'd never been able to achieve that level of realism in rehearsals. This wasn't right.

The audience still watching expectantly, some of them had started with the gunshot – not expecting the show to be so immersive. They hadn't realised that wasn't part of the show. The Horrible Historians had, the gunshot wasn't supposed to be so loud. They'd had professional advice on how to set up the pistol to fire a blank – to make a noise that would be quiet than a usual gun firing as there wouldn't be a bullet. There shouldn't have been a bullet. 

The troupe started to realise the horror of what must have happened, running to Mat, writhing on the ground. Some of the audience had noticed the blood. Some of them were now realising what must have happened as Jim shouted “Mike! What the fuck did you do?”

Mike stammered a response, “I...it was only supposed to be a fake bullet...it wasn't supposed to...I didn't mean to...shit.”

Lizzie was the first to reach Mat, her legs powering towards his unmoving form as soon as he hit the grass. She knew something had gone wrong, she had felt it. Lizzie had been Dismissing the feeling of dread that had been building all day as pre-show nerves, the understandable worry of performing and the sadness of the show's ending. The voice in her head that had urged her to worry today was silent now, knowing it had been proved right, her thoughts racing uncontrollably as she tore across the field to Mat. The gun shouldn't have been that loud, it was never that loud in rehearsal. The way Mat fell to the ground, 

knelt at Mat's side, leaning over to hold his head and murmuring “I have realised that I love you in ways that are beyond my ability to express.”

“You silly, foolish, wonderful man.”

The medic ran across the field, the Horrible Historians who weren't dispersing the audience moved aside to give her access to Mat. She looked around at the few staring gravely down at their friend writhing in pain on the grass, “does he have any allergies? Is he on any medication?”  
“GIVE ME SOME SHITTING DRUGS NOW!”  He screamed at the paramedic's hesitation

Mat held on to Lizzie as the paramedics worked checking Mat's vitals, they were calm in contrast to Lizzie grabbing Mat's shirt, holding his head and begging him to stay awake, to stay with her. Other Horrible Historians had ran over and formed a circle at a respectful distance, “that's a lot of blood...” he heard one of the paramedics murmur doubtfully to the other, hovering directly above his eyeline.

The Horrible Historians had always seemed to get along, but now, just beyond where Mat lay there was fierce shouting that carried over the quickly emptying field, the audience being herded forcefully and swiftly off the field. Away from a writhing and bleeding Mat.

“I'm so sorry,” Mike could be heard whimpering as Jim shouted in his face, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO YOU FUCKING MORON?”  
“It was...I switched the blank out for...it wasn't supposed to be like a real bullet...it shouldn't have broken the skin...it was only supposed to give him a bruise...” Mike was blabbering, terrified at seeing the results of his deception, he had intended to hurt Mat, but not like this, never like this.  
“I can't believe you'd do something this stupid Mike, look at him for fuck's sake.” Larry threw out his arm, indicating the badly injured Mat lying metres away, “does he look like that's 'just a bruise'?”  
Mike hung his head, he looked like he was crying, shaken by how badly he'd misjudged this situation, the fear of what was to happen next.  
Jim balled his fists and looked as though he would hit Mike at any moment, Mike tensed, prepared for the strike, knowing he deserved it, wanting the consequences to be delivered to him in the form of a beating. He knew he deserved this.

There was a moment of tension as Jim prepared to hit Mike, others in the group gathered around, also wanting to inflict injury in their shock and anger, some eyeing Jim warily – ready to hold him back. The blows never came. Jim instead lowered his fists. “You're out of the group,you're staying here until the police arrive and you're their problem...After that I never want to see you again...you better hope he pulls through this...”

He turned sadly, not willing to waste any more energy on Mike as he strode to Mat's side, not wanting to be overcome with his grief, desperately wanting someone to give him something to do to help. In the movies someone would receive a barked order to fetch towels from the house and the injury would be stoppered, help would arrive quick, the paramedics would be able to fix him up enough to send to hospital. Jim couldn't help his thought's racing ahead, 'after the hospital staff stabilise him, we'll be able to visit in a week's time maybe, once he's awake....I'll take him grapes, That's what you take to people recovering in hospital isn't it? I'll buy the best grapes...some chocolate too, because everyone likes chocolate – and lets be real – grapes are boring.'

Lizzie ignored the shouting behind her, she was detached, caring only about the severely injured Mat who's head she gingerly held. There was a fierce grief burning in her eyes, she desperately needed Mat to be ok but was increasingly scared by his blank expression, the light in his eyes seemed to have dimmed. When only a few moments ago he was burning with life, with passion as Thomas, now he was lying seriously injured – the same injury as Thomas had.

This all seemed to be occurring, to Mat, as if from a long way away, as if he was outside of himself, a distance away, looking in. He vaguely wondered what all of the shouting was about and wished people would be quiet, but he couldn't open his mouth, couldn't speak to tell them.

Slowly, very slowly he moved his arm to his abdomen and lifted his hand up in front of his face. Confusion swirled in his brain. There was blood on his hand. His blood. Flowing freely from a wound in his stomach. A bullet wound.

Thomas had been shot. Memories were slowly flowing back to him, as if wiping a dirty mirror with an equally dirty cloth, it was skewed and unclear but the general picture was there. He was duelling with Byron, then he'd been shot.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain and confusion away, but then he felt caring hands holding him, brushing his cheek. A voice. A familiar voice. He peeled his eyelids open again. Elizabeth. She was on the grass with him, holding him, speaking low and desperate. Her words flowed quick, begging him to stay with her. His mind was groggy, the pain chasing away any coherent thought. “I love you” he eventually heard, understood. He tried to reply. “I love you Elizabeth.” His face contorted with the pain but briefly he smiled. He did love her, despite the pain, the confusion, the bullet lodged inside him and the blood quickly escaping him. He knew this and this alone. He loved Elizabeth.

He barely possessed the energy to think this thought, much less than to scream it out loud into the field for the breeze to carry to her. He loved her. He would die for her, luckily for him this was looking like the most likely outcome. He was suddenly overcome with sadness and regret, realising he would never again dance with her, would never be able to talk to her.

“Mat! No! Please Mat!” Lizzie was shouting at him now, the paramedics looking defeated, catching each other's gaze and shaking their heads slightly. “His best chance is if we call in the air ambulance to fly him to hospital, but...it's not looking good for him....” The medic searched the grief stricken faces in the circle around Mat, looking for the one who would take responsibility for the patient. He assumed Lizzie was his girlfriend and directed his words to her, knowing as he spoke how uncaring he sounded, in his line of work he often had to deliver crushing verbal blows in a matter-of-fact fashion. That didn't mean he didn't grief for the dying and the dead any less, that never made it any easier.

What a fucking waste, the assistant medic thought, thankful for his colleague talking, meaning she didnt have to. A young man, caut down in the prime of his life, for what? A theatre performance?  
A stunt gone wrong? A stupid accident, something that should never have happened. What a fucking waste of a life. She shook her head at the injustice and tried not to meet the gaze of any of the actors, she knew as well as her colleague this man would die here, he was bleeding badly, they couldn't stop the blood with their limited resources here and a helicopter would take too long. This was it for him. She wasn't allowed to tell these people how useless they were against an injury this extreme, but she felt she should prepare them, let them know to make the most of these few moments, they would be this man's last.

'She does not comprehend the profundity of my feelings for her,'  he thought, for how could she? Even he did not fully understand how he could feel so strongly after a painfully short time spent in her company. His passion was all consuming, proven by his current predicament.

Something compelled Thomas to open his eyes again, he could now make out others behind Lizzie, figures swimming in and out of focus. A lady in a purple dress – a vague memory told him she was always smiling and bubbly, but she wasn't now as she looked down on him. Strange. There was a lady dressed as though a servant, white apron over a blue and yellow dress, soot covered face. A man dressed in furs.

His vision blurred and he gave up trying to make sense of this scene, it hurt his already fragile consciousness and he shut his eyes again, the pain was unbearable, it was becoming too much effort to keep his eyes open. 

He vaguely heard a conversation above him,  “Sam! put him in the recovery position!”   
“...he's dead.”   
“Try it anyway!” 

It no longer mattered, he wasn't dying in the field now, he was with Elizabeth in the walled garden. They could have been dancing for a hundred years, never needing more than to be in each other's arms. The garden long abandoned, the roses growing out across the path and entwining them, reaching up and around them, encasing them within the garden forever. Thomas and Elizabeth becoming ghosts in time. The stars slowly flickered out of existence overhead but neither of them noticed as the darkness intensified, throwing them into complete shadow as they danced on and on into the endless night.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Mike Shinoda - Ghosts
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHwXJd_0uB4&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNQ6Hd3yYyQ_b183sRTqNQ4R&index=16

He opened his eyes, feeling a strange sense of calm as he looked up to the heavy grey sky. He felt the heaviness of having woken from a long, deep sleep. He lay awhile, watching clouds roll across his eyeline high above, not feeling the need to move. Not feeling anything. He considered this lack of feeling but decided he didn't have the energy to worry about it. He didn't feel pain, that was good. He didn't feel cold, hungry or tired – also good. Briefly he wondered if he was dead, but dismissed this notion quickly, partly because it didn't bear thinking about but mostly because he felt so utterly calm. Surely death would not feel this – normal? Still. This feeling of nothing was strange, he tried to remember a time when he'd last felt like this but found he couldn't. 

He tried to remember what he'd been doing before he fell asleep. He couldn't. He then attempted to recall where he was. He couldn't. When searching for a memory of who he'd been with, there was nothing. He ran through countless scenarios, tried recalling an image of his parents, his first kiss, a lover, his job. He failed to conjure a single memory. He wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep, to wake up when this strange feeling had passed and he could remember again. He found that when he closed his eyes, sleep refused to engulf him, he didn't feel tired. He'd rather have his eyes open and be looking up at the sky, beyond that he didn't feel anything. 

Frustrated by his lack of memory, lack of anything to explain his current predicament, he lay watching the clouds, but eventually the urge to stand overcame him, he needed to know if he could stand. He hadn't wanted to look down at his body, vaguely assuming everything was in it's correct position and worked as there was no pain, but not wanting to look in case he was a horrific tangled mass of broken limbs. He very slowly sat up and looked down at his legs – both present – they looked sturdy enough, no obvious defects. He tried not to notice anything else about himself, not wanting to be overwhelmed by too much information at once, resigned to wait for memories to trickle back into his consciousness when they were ready to reveal themselves. He stretched out his hands on the grass either side of him – arms feeling steady and strong enough to support him, another positive discovery to tick off the list. He couldn't shake the feeling he was hovering just above the grass he was sitting on, experiencing a strange feeling of not quite making contact. The solid mass of the earth, he had a strong sense he should feel under him, wasn't there. It was more of a gentle touch, like the breeze through his hair, barely touching. Although now he was considering this, he couldn't feel the wind in his hair either, but he could see it ruffling the branches of a nearby tree. Very strange.

Very slowly he stood up, that odd feeling of not quite being connected to the ground under his feet was distracting, although he could walk without any issues. He decided not to worry about it – it was probably just a side effect from a long, deep sleep. Maybe he had sunstroke from lying in the sun too long. A quick glance to the leaden sky would debunk that theory but he found these thoughts slipping from his brain as soon as they occurred to him. They seemed to be irrelevant, erased instantly. 

He appeared to float over the grass, barely making an indentation on the ground as he walked, he didn't allow himself to linger on this thought for long as his mind was occupied by frantically trying to remember his name. He drifted slowly to a lake at the bottom of the field he had woken on, reaching the edge he took a deep breath – it didn't seem to fill his lungs as he thought it should – and looked over the edge into the reflective surface. He needed to figure out who he was. Where he was. And perhaps most importantly, why. 

He was met with the image of a handsome young man, someone in the prime of his life, the deep brown of his eyes like a finely varnished antique cabinet of the finest mahogany. They matched his perfectly curled hair that ended comfortably at a starched white collar, under which rested a forest green cravat of good quality. A waistcoat overlaid the shirt, a fine one at that, his gaze stopped suddenly at the large crimson patch on the left side of the abdomen – his abdomen. His arm shot up to cover a dark circular hole that was clearly the source of the claret stain, instinctively, almost protectively, but he realised he felt no pain.

He did, however, stagger backwards as he was hit with the force of a powerful memory. He was standing on a field, this field, pointing a gun at someone, he had felt the bullet from the gun of the other man ripping into him.

The memory seemed to be the most solid thing he'd experienced since waking up, crashing over him like a breaking wave, consuming him entirely within it's folds. He saw everything with perfect clarity in that moment, remembered every minor detail as it seemed to stretch out to an impossible length. He realised the duel could have only lasted a matter of seconds before he was shot, but strangely, he also knew it had somehow lasted two hundred years. Time had stopped for a second and restarted many years later, the same scene had played out again, bringing the story finally to it's violent finale. Bringing with it his death.

He was equally as flawed by the sudden arrival of another memory tearing into his brain as the bullet had torn into his body. His name was Thomas.

For a moment he stood staring out over the lake, replaying the moment he died over and over in his mind, details slowly trickled back into his consciousness the more times he relived those moments, his final moments. He forced himself to think about the awful sound the gun had made as the man fired, the boom echoing around the field, inside his own head, until he realised the other man was Byron. Yes, that was his name, Lord Byron. They had been enemies in life, that's why they had been duelling.

Thomas Thorne. He was Thomas Thorne. This was his land. He spun around to stare at the house he knew would lie behind him, despite not having looked over his shoulder since waking up. He knew about the house because it had been his family home in life. Things were falling into place quickly now, memories flooding back, jostling for position at the forefront of his brain, there was another thought fighting to be heard. Mat. He wondered who that was, it was a name – a feeling of being very familiar, a brother perhaps? Someone he had been close to undoubedly. He was confident the thought would reveal itself fully to him in time and if it didn't, it couldn't have been too important. 

He was starting to accept that he was dead, mostly because he wasn't worried about being dead, he hadn't been able to worry about any of the massively worrying things that had occurred since he'd woken up. There was only the feeling of calm that wrapped around him like a blanket.

Thomas decided, for no particular reason other than there seemed to be nothing else to do, he would wander up to the house. He still didn't feel the panic or confusion he felt he should as he approached, nor did the gravel underfoot crunch as he believed it should have done. Thomas braced himself for the unknown and reached for the door handle, preparing to deal with whatever happened once he swung open the door. He ran through a multitude of scenarios in his mind on the walk from the lake, none of them came anywhere close to what actually happened.

His hand disappeared into the door.

He was left standing dumbstruck, staring at where his hand should be, instead his arm appeared to end at his wrist against the solid-looking wooden door. He regained enough clarity to quickly pull his hand back and held it up in front of his face. It looked to him as solid as the door, but he recalled the laws of physics had always applied in the past, he was confident he would remember being able to do this in life. Reaching the inevitable conclusion that he must now be a ghost. Thomas shrugged nonchalantly, deciding this wasn't a surprise to him and he wasn't vexed by this turn of events, merely curious. The next logical action would be to check if the rest of his body could pass through the door as his hand did, which of course he attempted. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before stepping forward, as if preparing to step off a cliff into the sea of unknown below. 

He experienced a strange feeling of being surrounded by wood, difficult to describe but somehow familiar, as if that was exactly how he was expecting walking through a door to feel. Upon opening his eyes he found himself in the hallway he remembered from life, he glanced around at the opulent surroundings. Grand paintings hung in dusty frames, mounted on peeling wallpaper, he did not care enough to inspect the paintings to check if they were the same he knew in life, that was irrelevant. He was instead disgusted by the dust and the shabbiness of the hall, the rusty suit of armour that was clearly covered in a layer of neglect, he would be speaking to the servants about this outrage.

Thomas squared his shoulders and strode off in the direction of the servants quarters at the rear of the house, marching purposefully into the drawing room until he stopped suddenly. There were voices approaching, strangers, he knew only that he did not know the people they belonged to and instinct told him to make himself scarse. For now. He hastily retreated, hoping whoever these people were, they wouldn't follow him towards the front door.

“Blast! Another power cut. This had better not be your doing Robin!”  
“It wasn't me!”  
“Well...”

The flow of conversation slipped further away, they were retreating towards the dining room. Good. He frowned and crept upstairs away from the voices, he needed time alone.

He had a vague recollection of the attic where he preferred to hide himself away, when he needed time to think in life. He would sit on the window seat and compose poetry – another memory materializing, no doubt triggered by being back in the house again.

Thomas couldn't recall how long he'd spent wistfully gazing out of the attic window, it would seem time behaved differently – warped and distorted - just as the physical body did once death had occurred. Interesting. Maybe he would become accustomed to the new rules of time passing, as he  
had done at being able to pass through solid wooden doors. 

He was contemplating his new situation, with his usual hint of angst and self-pity when a man strolled past the doorway, Thomas didn't notice him until he backtracked and stood in the doorway staring at him, too late to retreat elsewhere in the house, Thomas found himself thinking regretfully. 

The men regarded each other, Thomas with a vague disinterest and the stranger with an unmistakable curiosity, staring as if Thomas was in the possession of multiple heads. He noticed the man was dressed in a beige uniform – that of a Scout – a voice in his head insisted, Thomas briefly wondered how he knew this but was more concerned with the stick that protruded from both sides of the man's neck. It was a blue stake that had somehow been driven straight through .

“Oh,” the man was clearly taken aback by Thomas, “hello!” He seemed friendly enough, pausing for a moment, regarding Thomas with an open and child-like curiosity before continuing. “I've not seen you before...but you don't look new...your clothes...are you...Georgian?” The man was obviously working out something in his head, the correct response seemed to be to nod – so Thomas did.

“I'm Pat,” the man beamed, “1984...I'd shake your hand...” He smiled faltered, “but, you know...” He remained in the doorway as his words trailed off into silence, both men at a loss as to what to do next. Thomas felt as though he should be bombarding the man with questions – the stick through his neck could only mean one thing, the man was also dead. Pat was a ghost too. 

“Why haven't I seen you around before now?” Pat seemed genuinely curious but also vaguely annoyed as if with himself, for not noticing Thomas before now. Thomas didn't want to admit he'd only woken up recently and even more recently found himself back in the house, he was still wondering why Pat had reeled off numbers as a greeting. An uneasy feeling was beginning to creep up on Thomas. “What year is this?” The words tumbled from his mouth before he had time to consider talking, unsure if he was he still able to, he hadn't tested his voice since waking up. Apparently his voice was fine as Pat smiled, “We're in 2019 now mate, bit far from your time, easy to lose track I know, it's only been a few years for me...compared to you.”

2019\. How had this happened? Thomas' head was spinning with this new information, the only real surprise of today. He was alive in the 1800's, he had been shot and woke up in the year 2019, how was this possible?

“Listen,” Pat was obviously keen to talk now he'd discovered Thomas, “you must have spent so long rattling around here on your own, I don't know how you've managed to stay away from the rest of us for so long. Although, I don't blame you...” He paused to chuckle, “we're all downstairs, come and meet the rest of the gang.” He beamed with pride, “There's the Captain – he doesn't like to use his real name, he's our leader, sort of. There's Fanny, she's the matriarch of the group. You seem like an upstanding sort of fellow, I'm sure she'll like you. Then there's Robin – he's the oldest, been here since pre-historical times if you can believe that. Ooh now there's Kitty – a real sweetheart, she'll be from around your time, you'll have to have a chat to see how you both fit into the timeline of this place. Mary, she's from the times of the witch trials, we don't know much about her, she doesn't like to talk about herself. Julian of course, he's the youngest of us all, and by that I mean he was the last to die, he's been here the least amount of time as a ghost, died in the 1990's. He's an MP so don't expect a straight answer from him. Humphrey, he's from the time of King Henry the eighth! He was...umm...unfortunately separated from his head on death so you need to watch out for his body wandering around and his head lying on the floor, he's not very co-ordinated bless him...”

Thomas found himself inexplicably and completely drawn to Pat, he held an aura of infectious happiness. It had been a confusing day, Thomas lamented and Pat here seemed like the perfect, sensible gentleman to explain things to him. He found himself feeling happy for the first time in however long it had been since he died, as he fell into step beside Pat. The cheerful monologue of his guide washing over him as they made their way down through his former house to meet the rest of the Ghosts.


End file.
